


Butterflies, the Beautiful Kind

by TheBrightestNight



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Male-Female Friendship, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-11 02:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 48,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrightestNight/pseuds/TheBrightestNight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sherlock did have a friend, someone he could trust, during those crucial years that turned him into the man he is today? Would it make a difference or be the cause of the pain he hides behind his title as a "high functioning sociopath"? Memories, flashbacks and glimpses reveal the evolution of Sherlock Holmes's relationship with a one Elizabeth Hallows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Everything Has Changed

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you combine the song and music video of "Everything Has Changed" by Taylor Swift and the movie, Young Sherlock Holmes.
> 
> This is an interpretation of what I think Sherlock's childhood would be like with a little bit of an OC twist.

He wasn't always like he was these days. He used to be fairly sweet. When I first met him, he was still… well, he wasn't as… damaged, I suppose. And by damaged, I mean, closed up to people to protect himself. The way he hides behind his deductions and his analytical view about everything he encounters, his lack of social skill and his bluntness. As I was saying, though, he wasn't as closed up, but he was just beginning to form his Mind Palace and notice the small details.

I remember meeting him for the first time, quite clearly. It's actually a very fond memory. You see, I had just moved and he actually became my first friend. I don't know how I managed his sometimes cold demeanour or uncaring attitude, and his straightforwardness, but as time went on, and we grew close, they became attributes and idiosyncrasies that I associated with him. Of course, they weren't as pronounced during childhood as they were now, but, like I said, they became him and I became used to them. I accepted that he was unique and had a very beautiful mind.

Anyway, the first time we met was my first day at a new school (in the middle of Year 3). I was new so I didn't have any friends and when I walked into the lunchroom, I noticed him for three reasons: 1) he was reading the newspaper, 2) he didn't have a lunch and 3) he was completely alone.

My heart pounded as I walked into the crowded lunchroom. Around me kids chattered and ate, the noise in the room almost overwhelming. It was like sensory overload and it only made me more nervous. I looked around the room, walking slowly through the maze of tables and children, searching for an empty table or maybe someone who I thought I might be able to relate to and become friends with.

As it turns out, I spotted a boy at the end of the lunchroom, sitting by himself, reading the newspaper. It was folded down to a small size giving me a view of his messy, dark curls atop his head. His eyes—I was too far to tell the colour of—were focused on what he was reading and he had no food in front of him. Without continuing to scour the lunchroom for other possible candidates, I went straight up to that table and sat down a few feet away from him (setting my lunch bag on the table and my backpack on the ground at my feet), glancing out of my peripherals to see if he'd react. He didn't, he seemed far too engrossed in what he was reading.

As I peeked over at him, though, I caught a glimpse of what he was reading. I'd heard about it on the news but I never really paid much attention. I didn't like hearing about death. It was too tragic and morbid for me. Curious now, though, seeing him read it, him being my age and all, I unknowingly scooted closer to him to get a better look at the article. Carl Powers was the boy's name and he'd drowned in a pool, here in—

"Do you mind?" a voice interrupted my train of thoughts and my reading. I blinked and turned my head to come face to face, quite literally, we were centimetres apart (and I was practically pressed up against him), with the curly-haired boy, whose eyes were a very inquisitive grey.

I instantly pulled back, blood rushing up to my face.

"I'm sorry, I just… I just wanted to see what you were reading." I mumbled, pushing myself a little farther away from him, my eyes flickering from him to the table and the walls and the floor. "It's a bit strange," I commented, looking at him, realising that he'd been reading about a tragic, morbid death. "Reading about something so… grim."

The boy shrugged before straightening his newspaper and going back to reading. Chewing my lip, I turned back to my lunch. Not a very good first impression. But, I wasn't about to give up. I could really use a friend and the reason I was over here trying to make friends with this particular boy, instead of the other kids crowding in this lunchroom, was because it looked like he could use a friend more than I ever could.

So I turned back to my lunchbox, trying not to feel awkward. Thankfully he seemed pretty involved in the article he was reading, so he didn't seem to mind that I was sitting a few feet away from him. For now anyway.

I laid out a napkin on the table, like a placemat, before pulling out my ham and cheese sandwich, apple slices, yoghurt and juice. I unwrapped my sandwich from the plastic wrap and took off one of the pieces. My mum had cut it into two perfect triangles. I was on my third bite when I glanced over at the boy again and remembered he didn't have a lunch. Which I found was just about as odd as reading about a death in the daily news.

Swallowing my third bite a little hard, I picked up my other piece, slid over a little closer to him and held it out—just a little in his face, I'll admit. I saw annoyance flash in his now fierce blue eyes before he looked over at me, shooting daggers. I didn't flinch, I merely extended my hand a little more.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding more exasperated than angry, which struck me as odd, considering his eyes were cold, blue crystals.

"I'm offering you half of my sandwich." I told him simply. "I… I noticed you didn't have a lunch. And I thought you might be hungry—"

"I'm not."

I didn't move my arm, but it was starting to ache from holding it up and out for so long.

"Why would you care?" he finally asked when he realised I wasn't going to relent.

"Well… because..." I trailed off too afraid to say it. It was very straightforward and I wasn't sure how he'd take it, seeing as I'd bothered him twice already in the span of ten minutes. But then I figured, if he hadn't gotten up to leave after I invaded his personal space he wouldn't mind me being a little blunt. "Because I'd… like to get to know you better. I'd like to… be friends."

His blue eyes softened a little at this, morphing into a more blue-green. However, as soon as they had softened they harden again.

"No, thank you." he said a little crisply, turning back to his paper. I made a face and slid back to my spot before grabbing another napkin, unfolding it, wrapping the sandwich half in it and sliding it over to him. I then pretended to mind my own business, watching him from the corners of my eyes. It was hard not to turn to him when he stared at me and continued to stare at me for what felt like an eternity but slowly, he turned back to the paper. I continued to watch and not a moment later did he reach out and gently pick up the sandwich, not looking away from his paper.

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face, but I kept my eyes firmly on my food. I then continued to go off into my own world, so when the boy cleared his throat, sitting much closer to me, however long later, I jumped and squeaked before covering my mouth with my hand a deep shade of red.

"Oh, I-I just realised," I started quickly, trying to get past that embarrassing moment as fast as possible. "I haven't introduced myself at all. I'm—"

"Wait," he interrupted. "Let me."

My eyes narrowed, but I stayed silent to see just what he was going to do. Then I watched as his eyes wandered to my food and my lunch bag and then back to me, looking me over from my head to my shoes before he met my eyes again.

"You're name is Elizabeth Hallows. You've moved here from Manchester. You're a fan of poetry. And your favourite colour is blue."

I stared at him in shock for a few seconds before turning to look at my lunch, trying to process what he'd said. He'd been exactly right, of course, but that's what was so baffling about this whole situation. I had no idea how he'd managed that one. Especially because we'd never met _and_ I didn't even know his name!

"Wow," I finally whispered, when my brain started functioning again. "That was… that was incredible!" I looked over at the boy who seemed a bit startled at my exclamation, but he blinked a few times and it was gone, replaced by a sort of smug air. "How'd you do that?" I asked eagerly.

The curly-haired boy outwardly smirked before explaining, "You're backpack reads E. Hallows. I recalled earlier today hearing a teacher calling a Lizzy back into class and seeing you quickly run back into the room. Lizzy is sometimes a short-name for Elizabeth. I got Manchester from your dialect. A moment ago you were muttering under your breath, a poem by William Wordsworth. 'I wandered lonely as a cloud,' I believe it's called. And your favourite colour is blue because all the charms on your bracelet are blue. A charm bracelet indicates choice of charm, thus far you've only picked blue ones. So, you must be very fond that colour."

"Oh, well, I do like poetry… I only know that one so well because my mum recites it to me every night. It's… soothing." I mumbled, keeping my eyes on the table. A small moment of tense silence forms before I look back at the boy. "How old are you?" I found myself asking. I was half-joking and half-serious.

The boy slightly narrowed his eyes for a second, his brow furrowing.

"I'm eight. Why is that important?"

"You don't remind me of an eight-year-old." I blurted.

"What do I remind you of?"

"I don't know. Older, I guess. Just… older. No specific age or anything. Are you in Year Three?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

"No, it's just… well, it seems like with your intelligence you'd be in a higher grade or something. I mean, you read the newspaper. You know personal things about a complete stranger just by looking at them."

The boy turned away from me, then. He slightly cast his head down at a small angle and averted his gaze. (Which I'd come to find out later was something he did whenever someone picked on him or started making jokes, or even the mere mention of how different he was from other people.) I'd struck a cord somehow and I had a sinking feeling it had to do with the fact that he was sitting all alone at this lunch table.

"Yes, well," he spoke, his voice much quieter than it was before. "I… I've talked about it with my teachers and Mum and Dad. I didn't _want_ to be with older kids. I wanted to be with kids _my_ age. And, though, going through some of these classes is unbearable because of the simplicity of it all, I want to be with kids my own age."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." I mumbled, feeling bad now. And it had been going so well, too!

The bell sounded, signalling the end of lunch and the boy quickly stood, his newspaper in hand, his backpack appearing out of thin air, slung over his shoulder.

"Thank you for the… uh… sandwich." he mumbled before quickly starting off.

"Wait!" I yelled, standing up too, only too fast. My feet got caught in the chair's legs and gravity did the rest, however instead of falling onto the floor, I fell into the boy. He'd caught me. I quickly righted myself and pulled away, blushing like mad. "I-I… I never got _your_ name."

"Holmes." he said. "Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Secrets

I didn't completely understand the enormity of the situation until the next year, Year 4. Sure I was only a year older, but I'd gone through a lot during Year 3 with Sherlock. I'd gained some of his trust, he was more open around me than he was with anyone else in the school. And it was in these moments, when he would open up that I began to understand just how much pain he was really in.

Now, generally, I'm a very happy person. I try to be kind to all I meet or at the very least give them a warm smile, because I knew that just a genuine smile could brighten up someone's bad day. School was the first time I ever encountered negativity in my life, because there were so many different people, from different backgrounds, raised differently, with different attitudes and opinions. Before I ever got to school all I was surrounded by were family and close family friends, and of course they were all nice and kind. No one ever put anyone else down. And though, as any family does, they had their issues, I was too young to understand them and/or my parents would keep it from me.

So school was good for learning and experiencing that negativity. I realised that not everything in life was going to be like skipping through a field of flowers. The world was a cruel place to be, but that was only because people suffered and felt they had no other outlet, other than to pick on other people and make them feel lesser and more worthless. My school experience hadn't been too bad, though. No one really picked on me. They all just sort of left me alone to my own devices. I had a group of friend back in Manchester that I hung out with. All the kids in my class knew of me as the nice, sweet girl, but I wasn't popular.

Then came that day, that one day during fall term that it finally clicked for me. The day that it all fell into place. The day that I finally fully understood why Sherlock was sitting all alone during lunch with no food, reading the newspaper, my first day at a whole new school. All of it, really, not just with Sherlock but the whole "the world was a cruel place to be" thing as well.

Lunch had just started, however, I wasn't heading over there just yet because I had a meeting with a teacher. She promised it would be short—and I was hoping it would be, because you know how meetings with teachers are, you never _really_ knew how long you'll be there—so I found myself heading to her classroom as soon as the bell rang for lunch. It's not like I was in any rush to get there because Sherlock always beat me there anyway. I never knew how he did it, but he did. I had chanced guesses that he somehow got out of class early, or maybe, because he never brought a lunch with him since I met him, he didn't take time to go to his locker.

Anyhow, it wasn't a race, I just didn't want to be too late. I wanted time to actually eat lunch and talk with Sherlock. (And also give him half my sandwich. It had become a habit, almost. I hated to see him go without eating during lunch. I don't know how he functioned on half a sandwich and sometimes nothing at all.)

I hesitantly walked into the doorway of Mrs Turpin's classroom and knocked lightly on the doorframe. She looked up from a stack of papers on her desk, holding a red pen, so I assumed grading papers, and smiled when she saw me.

"Come in, Lizzy," she said, waving me forward. You see, she taught math and I wasn't very good at it. At all. Basically, I was one test away from failing. My parents insisted that I go talk to her about my options, they're the ones that set up this meeting in the first place, and I have to oblige. They were my parents after all and I _was_ failing this class.

I pulled a chair from one of the desks and stiffly sat down. I hated meetings with teachers. I always felt uncomfortable because I was afraid they were going to yell at me or get angry. I was trying my best, but math just wasn't my strong suit.

We discussed my current grade and an upcoming test. She said I did well on all the homework she gave out and wondered out loud why I couldn't perform at that level during a test. I explained that Sherlock helped me with homework. He obviously couldn't help me with a test. So we discussed a plan that would hopefully get me a passing grade in class, so I wouldn't have to repeat. Sherlock would stay my tutor, but I needed to put more effort into studying as well as working on my mental math and memorising my times table.

I thanked her and quickly left. It had taken ten more minutes than I had assumed, so I was now fifteen minutes late for lunch. I swiftly started to make my way to my locker, down one hall, turning right, down another hall, taking a left and then I was coming up to a corner that turned left. One wall was lockers, the opposite wall a line of large windows. After that I was one hallway away from my locker and lunch. Right before I turned down that hallways, though, I heard noise and halted in my tracks, my breathing instantly became shallow.

I moved closer to the wall and tip-toed to the corner to peek around it. I never believed that that really worked. I'd seen it in television shows and movies, but they always ducked behind the wall _after_ they were spotted. And though the people they were spying on passed it off as their imagination, I sure as hell wouldn't. If I thought someone was watching me, I'd go check it out. But… that was just me.

And here I was doing exactly the opposite of how I felt. But I wanted to see what was going on. It didn't sound good and the air around this little area of hallway didn't feel nice, either.

There were three boys from our year and then there was Sherlock. The boys were blocking most of my view, their backs to me, but I got glimpses when they shifted from foot to foot or moved, it was definitely Sherlock. I'd recognise those dark curly locks anywhere. They acted as some sort of barricade between him and the hallways he'd been heading down. And they weren't being very nice.

"Hey, _freak_ , where do you think you're going?" One of them sneered, shoving Sherlock's shoulder. I felt like I recognised that voice, but I couldn't be too sure.

"I'm going to the lunchroom." Sherlock answered in a monotone, gazing at the boys steadily.

"What, no lunch today?" Another one mocked before all three of them laughed. More voice recognition, but not enough to give me a face or a name.

"Guess he finally learned his lesson, then." The third chimed in, still snickering. Again, there was an overwhelming sense that I knew this boy as well as the other two, but because they weren't facing my way, I wasn't sure. Also, I was eavesdropping on something I probably didn't want to be eavesdropping on.

"I don't know guys, maybe he's hiding it in his backpack." One of them said. All three of them exchanged a look before taking a step toward Sherlock.

I pulled back then and squeezed my eyes shut, putting fisted hands over them and gritting my teeth. I didn't know what to do! I wanted to help but… but what was I _supposed_ to do? I'd never encountered bullying before, especially such violent bullying. It was scary. I was really scared. For myself and for Sherlock. _But I just didn't know what to do!_

"You guys hold him and I'll get his backpack." I heard one of the boys say.

Biting my lip, hard, I lifted my head and looked around the hallways, thinking maybe I could go get a teacher and try to put a stop to this. But all I could see were lockers. One door, unfortunately it was labelled Janitor's Closet. That would do no use unless I wanted to scare those three boys with dirty water.

I heard the scuffling of shoes and grunts as they struggled.

My pulse increased and my breathing became more rapid. I had to do something quick! Maybe if I caught them and yelled at them, stood up to them they'd run off, scatter. Yeah, I could maybe do that…. Maybe. Still biting my lip, my hands clenching and unclenching into fists, I quickly worked up the courage to go over to them and make them stop. A thought froze me in my tracks, though. If I went and stopped what was going on, then they would make fun of him for being saved by a girl. That would just make things worse! And they'd spread rumours and people would laugh at him… oh, it'd be terrible! Still, I couldn't just let him get bullied!

So I made up my mind to go help him and just when I was about to turn the corner I heard a loud-ish bang and some of the lockers rattle, followed by a small grunt of pain and more struggling. On a dime my nerve vanished and I went back to being scared. I covered my ears this time and backed up against the wall, my knees feeling weak. My hands did no good to filter out the noise, though.

"Hey," Sherlock's voice cut through air. "Give that back! That's mine!" I squeezed my eyes shut tight and held my breath when I heard another bang and more rattling of the lockers.

"Watch yourself, Holmes." one of the boys spat before I heard the unzipping of backpack zippers.

I felt so pathetic, hiding behind this wall. Unable to help a friend who desperately needed it, because I had a feeling this had happened before, only no one had ever been there to help him. And here I was, to coward to help him. He finally had someone and yet no help was coming. It was like insult to injury, lemon juice in his eye, salt on his open wounds. This was _horrible_ , and I was a horrible friend.

"Let's see," the same boy who'd warned him a moment ago said. "What do we have in here?" There was a pause as, I suspected, he rifled through Sherlock's things. The boy snorted. " _Favourite Poems_ ," he read out loud. "William Wordsworth." He scoffed as the other two boys laughed. "You like poems, do you, Sherly." He continued to mock.

"That's not my name." Sherlock responded coldly.

"Oh, that's right, your name is Freak." one of the other boys said.

I still couldn't get myself to move, but the guilt was building up with every word that came out of those boys' mouths.

"A freak who likes poetry, apparently." The boy with the backpack scoffed before I heard a thud.

"Careful, that's a library book." Sherlock growled. Yet another bang and lockers rattling.

" _Careful, that's a library book,_ " one of them mocked in a baby voice, before all three of them laughed.

"Oh, and a Chemistry textbook!" the one boy exclaimed. "What a geek." He chortled. "But it doesn't look like there's any sort of food in here that I can see." I relaxed slightly. Maybe it was going to end really soon. (How naïve I was back then.) "But, you never know." The sound of more zippers, followed by many things hitting the ground—I'm guessing papers, pens, pencils, the sort of stuff you'd find inside a backpack.

Unwanted tears formed in my still closed eyes then. People were so cruel. I was one of them. Unable to help because I was a coward.

Finally, though it was over.

"All right, guys, let's go. Lunch'll be over soon."

I straightened up and opened my eyes, realising they were coming this direction. I didn't have time to hide, but I didn't want to make it seem like I'd heard what had just happened. My heart pumping in my chest painfully I fumbled for a book from my backpack and opened it up just as they turned a corner. I started walking forward, pretending not to notice them until I crashed into one of them.

"Oh, God!" I exclaimed, closing my book and stepping back a little afraid they'd start picking on me for reading a book. "I'm so sorry. I didn't see you there. I-I—"

"Hey, Lizzy," one of the guys said genially, giving me a smile. Which shocked me considering they'd just bullied Sherlock back there. But that didn't come as the real shock. What came as the real shock was that I knew all three of these guys, and I had even thought they were nice. That'd explain why I thought their voices had sounded so familiar. I'd talked with them and laughed with them. Helped them with English homework. (That was the point in time I realised that people had more than one dimension and more than one face.)

"H-hey, Jack, Derek, Colin," I stuttered, greeting them each respectively, forcing a smile on my face.

"I thought you'd be in the lunchroom." Colin commented. His voice had been the one I'd heard when they were going through his things, commenting on Sherlock's books.

I also found it odd that they knew I hung out with Sherlock during lunch and they didn't comment or make fun of me for that. In fact, no one made fun of me for that…. I'd figure this out later.

"Well, actually, I had to meet with a teacher. I was just actually going to my locker for my lunch, right now." I explained with a shaky laugh, sidling past them, trying not to seem nervous.

"You want us to walk you there. I feel like we haven't talked in a while." Jack offered, the three of them turning to face me as I made my way to the corner.

"No, that's not necessary. I'll see you guys next period. You should go… hang out with your friends before lunch ends." I insisted.

"You sure? We don't mind." Derek put in, looking back and forth between his buddies. "Right guys?" They agreed and nodded, looking at each other before looking back at me.

"Really," My voice had raised about two octaves and I quickly lowered it back to its normal tone. "Really, guys, it's no problem at all. It's not like these hallways are… dangerous or anything." I joked, forcing a laugh. They laughed with me.

"Well, all right, if you say so." Colin said. "But, if you need anything, you know where to find us." He smiled. They all did. Ugh, they seemed so sweet!

I nodded and forced myself to smile back. "Right. Okay, bye, guys." I turned and was about to dash off and look for Sherlock when one of them stopped me.

"Oh, wait, Lizzy," Derek said. I stopped and slowly turned to face him.

"Yeah," I replied through clenched teeth, but a smile still on my face. This act wasn't going to keep. _Hurry it up already!_ I thought.

"You have… well, you're hair—" Derek finally just reached forward, taking a loose strand of my strawberry blonde hair and tucking it behind my ear. I tried not to jerk away or flinch. He pulled back embarrassed and blushing. They had just picked on Sherlock? It was just so hard to believe. They seemed so… nice.

"Thanks. Bye, again." I mumbled before turning and heading down the hall they'd just come from. They all got their farewells in and headed down the hall I was just in. I made sure they were out of earshot before I sprinted down this hall, which was already empty. Sherlock had cleaned up his stuff and cleared out while I'd been trying to get away from Jack, Derek and Colin.

"Sherlock?" I called, coming up to where the hall split left or I could keep going forward. I followed my instinct and continued forward but not sprinting anymore. "Sherlock?" I called again. I went down two or three more halls and stopped, out of breath and disappointed with myself. I also felt I'd failed. Failed to be a good friend and help him and failed to find him to try and be there for him.

I looked at the clock, I had ten minutes left of lunch. And I still hadn't eaten. Groaning I turned around to head back to my locker, because I still hadn't gotten my lunch bag. Maybe I should just skip lunch today and—

I jumped back and let out a squeak when I almost crashed into someone.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed, throwing my arms around him, not really thinking. All I knew was that I was relieved to see him. To be able to talk to him. "I'm sorry." I instantly said, still hugging him tightly. He seemed too… stunned or surprised by this close contact to move. "I'm so sorry." I pulled back, tears forming in my eyes again, but I blinked rapidly to dispel them.

"What for?" he asked in a monotone.

I looked at him for a moment. "You know what." I said quietly. His poker face dropped a little and I took a small step toward him. "You can trust me." I promised.

Anger flashed in his mint green eyes. "They've done this for four years. I don't see why it has to be a problem now. It's not like it's a big deal." He started to turn away but I grabbed his arm.

"Sherlock," I said, my voice hard. He tried to pull out of my grasp but I tightened my grip. " _Sherlock_ ," I said again and waited until he looked at me. Well, more like angled his body toward me and looked down at the floor. "It _matters_ because you have me now. I'm here for you, Sherlock. You don't need to hide it anymore. At least," I said, my voice softer now, "not around me."

He closed his eyes tightly, his hands balling into fists. His jaw was taught. His whole body was tense. I could see just how conflicted he was. Suddenly he jerked his arm out of my hand. I took a step back and gave him a moment. He stood there for a few seconds more, still tense before he moved toward the lockers, slamming his fists up against them—making me jump—before resting them there, his head down, shoulders hunched. I stayed put, though and continued to watch him, and wait.

I don't know how much time passed, could've been five minutes or five seconds, but he moved again. Turning around and leaning against the wall of lockers, head still down, eyes still fixed on the floor. And then he slid down to the floor, bringing his legs up to his chest, resting his arms on his knees and resting his forehead on his arms.

I slowly approached him, a little stiffly to, I'll admit, and sat down next to him. His whole body was trembling. It was hard to see, though and I really wouldn't have been able to tell if it weren't for his hair. It was dark against the light coming from the windows and it was most definitely trembling.

I let out a small sigh and looked over at the opposite wall. Staring blankly at it. On impulse I reached out and took one of his hands, pulling his arm away from his knees, and held it tightly in mine, still staring straight ahead. I felt Sherlock's eyes on me after I'd done this, but I didn't look over at him, and he didn't make a move to take his hand back, so I figured I was okay.

I saw him move his other arm and looked over at him for a quick moment through the corners of my eyes just in time to see him wipe away some tears on his face. He had been absolutely silent this whole time. I didn't even know. My breath caught when I saw that and my eyes went back to the wall opposite, but my hand gave his a gentle squeeze, a reminder that I was here for him and that I always would be.

I felt his eyes on me again, but as before, I kept my gaze fixed on the spot on the opposite wall. There was a reason he didn't want me to see him outright crying, so I was doing my best to respect that while being there for him.

We sat like that until the end of lunch. When the bell rang we both stood up and started to head off in separate directions, no goodbyes or anything, no noise, in fact.

"Elizabeth," Sherlock said suddenly, breaking the silence. This hallway hadn't been overtaken by kids quite yet. I turned to face him.

"Thank you." he said.

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face. Sherlock's answering smile, which lit up his soft now-blue eyes, only made me smile more. And with that, we headed off to our next classes.

I knew holding his hand hadn't been much compared to all the things I could've done for him while he'd been getting pushed around and after, but at the very least, it reminded him he wasn't alone anymore.


	3. Little Things

After that moment during Year Four, Sherlock came to trust me a lot more. He didn't hold back and he was almost wholly himself. I say almost, because he'd gone through a lot during those first two years of school when I was still in Manchester and that meant two years alone, without a friend, being bullied because he was a genius of sorts. And it was in those two years that Sherlock closed up. Like two years with an actual friend was going to make him suddenly open up again.

That was the thing about the mind, it seemed to only remember the bad things, the negative things. I mean, you enjoyed the happy times and you remembered them, but when someone ever asked… anything it seemed like, you always thought of the negative things first. Or you know that saying where you can help a person thousands of times but the only time they'll remember is the one time you didn't help them? It was kind of like that.

Anyway, like I was saying, Sherlock did open up a little more, knowing that he could trust me—for the most part, as of Year Five. And it showed during our last months of Year Five, during spring.

"Sherlock?" I called, through the nearly empty hallways, the last of the kids trickling out to go home. I was supposed to be meeting Sherlock because he was still tutoring me in math. But he wasn't at my locker or his locker. And he wasn't in either of the Chem room or with any of the Biology teachers. I even checked all the English classrooms.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" I would ask. And I would always get the same response, "No."

After a while I decided he'd gotten caught up in something or had to rush home, so I started leaving myself, when I noticed Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft, standing outside on one of the grassy expanses of the school on the east side of the building. I'd met him quite a few times this year because he always came to pick Sherlock up. I don't know what changed that year, but he was there almost every day.

Anyway, Mycroft was standing on the grass, in front of a large oak tree, with that umbrella of his, looking up into the branches of the tree.

Curious what he was doing, but having a good idea, I rushed out of the building and toward where he was standing. I slowed a few feet from him and walked civilly up to stand next to him

"Hello, Lizzy," he said, not looking at me at all. (I would soon come to realise how genius both of the Holmes brothers were.) "Maybe you can get him down. He's being quite stubborn today." Mycroft continued, finally looking down at me, after finishing his sentence, and giving me a small smile.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"My brother," Mycroft clarified, pointing up to the boughs of the tree with his umbrella. "He doesn't seem to want to come down."

I looked up into the tree as well, trying to spot him. And even though I didn't, I decided that I should just go up there. So, without a word, I grabbed onto the nearest branch and hauled myself up.

He was resting on a particularly large branch, leaning against the trunk. He had a book in his lap, a newspaper hat on, the tie from his uniform tied around his head, and a periscope in his hands. He was currently looking at something in the distance.

"Hey," I said, sitting down on a branch next to his.

He jumped, startled (which was hard to do, even when he ten), his book sliding from his lap. Putting my feet on a branch below, I leaned against the branch Sherlock was sitting on and reached for the book, just as Sherlock leaned forward and did too.

We both managed to catch it, and when I went to pull it back up, I looked over at him. That was the first time I felt something stir. Because our faces were so close our noses were almost touching. And all I could see we're his bright beautiful wintery blue eyes.

The moment seemed to last a lifetime, but in reality, it probably only lasted about a second, before we both pulled away, Sherlock taking the book back and me, sitting back down on my branch.

"Hi, Elizabeth," Sherlock said quietly, putting the periscope away and opening the book back up to the page it was on. And it could've been just me, but it looked like he was slightly blushing, his cheeks a faint pink. But not for the reason you think.

"What're you doing?" I asked lightly.

"Reading, what does it look like?"

"I like your hat." I commented.

His blush seemed to deepen slightly. But only very slightly. And he clears his throat.

"Is Mycroft looking for me?" Sherlock asked, ignoring my hat comment for now.

I looked down and see him still standing there, but he's got his head down and he's rubbing his temple with the hand that isn't holding his umbrella.

I looked back up at Sherlock and nodded. "Yep."

"Sorry I didn't meet you after school today. I got... distracted." Sherlock replied, ignoring his brother as he had been since the bell rang, signalling the end of school.

"I have my math homework with me, would you like to do it right here?" I asked, pulling my backpack from off my shoulders and into my lap. He gives me a weird look that prompts me to ask, "What?" in a very defensive tone.

He blinks and his face clears. "I know we've been"—he pauses, as if he needs to think of the word—"friends for two years now, but... I mean, I blew you off to come sit in a tree and annoy my brother. And now you want to do your math homework in a tree?"

I tried to hide my smile, but I could still feel it pull at my lips, and looked down. Mycroft was now leaning against the tree, his head down. Hand still at his temple.

"You could annoy your brother a little more." I said quietly, looking back up at Sherlock. I got that half-smile back.

"Okay, sure." He said, taking off his newspaper hat and the tie around his forehead while I took out my homework and a pencil.

So for the next twenty minutes, he helped me (and got to annoy his brother). Which he seemed to enjoy. I'm sure annoying his brother more than anything, but, at least he was enjoying himself, somewhat.

"Thank you," Sherlock mumbled, as I packed my homework back up into my backpack. I looked at him for a moment, pausing in what I was doing, not sure if I heard him correctly. It wasn't like he was some jerk who didn't say it often. It was just, he wasn't one to say that often, just because. He was rude or mean about it. So, I'll admit, I was a bit shocked that he'd said that. And I hadn't even done anything, which made it even weirder.

"For what?" I asked, slowly zipping up my backpack, still—rudely—staring at him.

He held up the now flattened newspaper hat for me to see. "I… I appreciate that you didn't… ask me about it." It was weird seeing him stutter of his words and pause to think or force it out, because whenever I was around him he always seemed so literate. He spoke swiftly and knew exactly what he wanted to say. There were points in time I could barely keep up with him during a conversation he was speaking so quickly. Sometimes I'd even have to ask him to slow down just a tiny bit so that I can keep up with him.

"Oh, well… you didn't seem to want to talk about it, so I just… didn't ask." I stuttered, shrugging. "I should be thanking you, for helping me so much with math."

That was about the time when Sherlock's mother's voice sounded from the ground. I guess since Mycroft couldn't get Sherlock to come down, his parents could. And they did. He looked at me and sighed before shoving his things—his paper hat, periscope, tie and book—into his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder.

"Bye, Elizabeth," he said as he proceeded to make his way down to the ground.

"Bye, Sherlock!" I called, waving and looking down at him as his feet touched the grass. He looked back up and quickly waved back before heading off with his family to home. I sat in the tree a tiny bit longer, just enjoying myself.

It wouldn't be until little later that year did Sherlock tell me about his hat and periscope and wearing his tie around his head. Or rather, indiscreetly told me about all that stuff. It was during lunch. It had gotten silent between us and I guess he wanted conversation.

"Did you know that pirates wore eye patches, not because they lost an eye or anything, but it was to see better in the dark? What they'd do was put the eye patch over one eye so that it was completely dark and their eye could adjust, so that when they went into the ship, where there isn't much lighting they'd just switch the eye patch to their light-acclimated eye and they'd be able to navigate in darkness. I also read a story they used it to loot other ships and towns at night."

"That's really interesting. I didn't know that." I said. "Does that eye patch thing really work? Can you really see in the dark?"

"Well, it doesn't give you night vision or anything. No, nothing like that, but it does make the surrounding area a bit sharper and clearer. I've tried it before. It does work. I was able to navigate my house at one in the morning, without turning on any of the lights. It was quite fun."

"Did you do some looting?" I joked.

"I took my brother's watch," Sherlock answered, "but he took it back from me the next morning." before his facial expression almost hit that of a pout. It was the most adorable thing I'd ever seen. Just because I'd never seen Sherlock actually pout about… anything before.

That was the day that I found out—I knew: Sherlock Holmes liked pirates.


	4. Titanium

Sherlock really began opening up to me after the day he finally—indiscreetly—told me that he was a fan of pirates. That day in the tree seemed to help too, just because he was finally coming to learn that he could trust me. And I mean, _really_ trust me. Last year, there were still things he wouldn't say or tell me. When I was around him, he still seemed a little closed up and guarded, but when he found out that I wasn't like most of the kids that picked on him or tormented him, he opened up much more to me.

Year Six rolled around and our friendship grew. Our trust grew. And my knowledge about what really happened to Sherlock also grew. Which was a good thing and a bad thing. A lot of my experiences with Sherlock tended be bittersweet. Of course there were memories of him and me that were all around sweet, but when it involved learning more about him or gaining knowledge of his life and what'd made him who he was when I first met him—sitting alone during lunch reading the newspaper—the memories were usually bittersweet.

Like what happened during Year Five. Remember when I told you I thought it a bit odd that no one picked on me even though I was constantly hanging out with Sherlock? I mean, it wasn't like I didn't have any other friends. I'd made friends from most of my classes, and like I said everyone knew me but I wasn't popular. I just spent a lot of my time with Sherlock. If I wasn't hanging out with him or he wasn't tutoring me I'd be in a study group with some close friends doing other homework that didn't involve numbers.

Anyway, as I was saying, I didn't quite understand why no one really picked on me because I hung out with the kid they always picked on. When I was with my other group of friends they wouldn't say anything. Sometimes, they'd slip but it was mainly the rumors about Sherlock and me as a couple, which I dismissed immediately on the grounds that we were much too young. Besides, our relationship wasn't like that, we were just very good friends.

It was one day, during Year Six that I'd finally come to figure this conundrum out and not exactly in the way I expected or the way that was light on the emotions either. It was and still is a painful memory, but that morphs into a sweetness that I'll never let go of.

It also taught me something important that I'll never forget, that being bulletproof to words of hurt and anger, being bulletproof to looks of scorn and disgust, didn't mean anything. That word, "titanium" didn't count for anything. Humans are humans, not metal. And neither was Sherlock. Those words may not make him fall to his knees, collapse from the pain, but they still did damage. Every shot, though not fatal, left a mark. A permanent scar with little pain endured, but the little things add up until it becomes too much.

That's what happened to Sherlock.

And though he'd built his walls, called himself a "high-functioning sociopath", his lack of social niceties, calling people idiots or stupid, his walls weren't impervious. They were breakable. Every word, every name he'd ever been called hurt him. I could see that as clear as day on his face. The downward cast of his head, the averted gaze, just for a moment, a flash of that pain that he'd bottle up inside ever since childhood.

He may have had the strength to protect himself and ignore those snide remarks and scathing comments as best as he could, but he was very human. And he felt pain too.

The bell had just rung, signalling the end of the day. I was heading to my locker and then to one of the classrooms because today was one of my tutoring days with Sherlock. I swapped out my books and grabbed the things I needed for tonight's homework and shoved them quickly into my messenger bag (yes, I switched from a backpack to a messenger bag because I just liked them better) before making my way to the classroom, holding my math book in my arm because I ran out of room in my bag.

The door was slightly open when I got to the classroom and I pushed it open freezing in the doorway when I saw Sherlock sitting at one of the desks with Jack, Derek, and Colin surrounding him. They were all facing away from the door, so they couldn't see me. This time, though, I opened my mouth ready to call them out for being mean people, but the words got caught in my throat when Derek started speaking.

"Waiting for your girlfriend, Sherly." he taunted, the other two boys laughing with him.

Sherlock simply sighed heavily. "Not now, Derek. She'll be here soon."

Colin put a hand on the back of Sherlock's seat and got kind of into his face, then.

"I think you forgot the terms of our agreement." he said. My eyebrows furrowed at this. Agreement?

"Of course I haven't." Sherlock told Colin in a very clipped tone, turning his head to meet Colin's gaze with his own, no doubt, cold stare.

Colin smiled, seemingly unfazed, and straightened up, a smug smirk on his face. "Good. Because I would hate to start picking on Lizzy." My mouth went dry at this, my heart dropped and it was then did I realise exactly why no one picked on me for hanging out with Sherlock: He'd made an agreement with them.

I'm surprised in that moment I didn't collapse because as soon as everything clicked it felt like the weight of the sky had just fallen on my shoulders.

"If you like her so much why would you pick on here?" Sherlock asked in what sounded like a monotone, but I thought I detected some annoyance, maybe even… anger?

They all chuckled, looking at each other.

"Don't get me wrong," Jack started. "Lizzy's a sweet, smart girl—"

"Don't forget, pretty cute, too." Derek added.

"Yeah, right. And cute. But there's obviously something wrong if she chooses to hang out with a _freak_ like you." Jack continued. They all started chuckling and smiling. I blinked and realised tears had formed in my eyes that overflowed when I blinked, sliding down my cheeks quickly. That's also when my math book slipped from my numb hand and hit the floor. Not only did my papers fly everywhere, but also made a very loud noise in a very quiet room.

Sherlock's head snapped up at the sound but he didn't turn to look, he knew. The other three boys on the other hand automatically looked. There was a half a millisecond of silence and shock before my knees hit the floor as I went to pick up my things. I just wanted to leave now. There was no way I'd be able to look Sherlock in the face after what I'd just heard. _No way_.

I heard the three come up to me, offering to help me pick up the papers. All three at once, all their voice. Their reaching hands for my things, my papers. I didn't want them to touch anything of mine.

"It's fine!" I snap at them. "It's fine, I can get it myself." I choke out, trying to make sense of what's going on. But suddenly the few papers turns into a sea and I've lost control.

"Lizzy, really, we can help." one of them offered again.

"No, no, I've got it. I've got it. It's fine." I tell them, desperately trying to grab them all at once, and more slipping from my hands than I'm picking up. All the while I'm practically sobbing now, too much emotion and turmoil surging inside of me to handle. They try to help again, but I've had enough. I drop the papers I have before standing up and sprinting out there, leaving my math book, leaving my notes, leaving the three deceitful boys… leaving Sherlock.

I run all the way home, still sobbing as I get through the door. It takes a lot of love and comfort from my mom and dad to finally calm me down, and a lot of chocolate to get me talk about what happened.

I don't want to go to school the next day, but my parents insist. Tell me it'll be okay. To be strong. Still, I'd wished they'd given me at least a one day grace period.

I keep my head down and keep quiet for the day. Just stewing over what I'd heard yesterday. Thinking. Avoiding all of them. Everyone. Especially Derek, Jack and Colin. Especially Sherlock.

Math class though, the teacher comes up to me as everyone's filtering in before class starts. I'm sitting at my desk, arms crossed, resting on the desk, my chin resting on my arms, just staring blankly at the board.

"Sherlock wanted me to give this to you, Lizzy." she says softly, holding out my math book I dropped, all the papers back inside now. I pull back and she gently slides it onto my desk. As she walks away to greet the other kids, I gingerly reach out and open it. Flip through it, amazing, really. All my papers, all my note sand scraps are all back exactly where I had them before I dropped them.

I felt a smile pull at the edges of my lips. That boy. He was truly a genius.

I'd managed to avoid that genius boy all day somehow, but that ended at the end of the day when Mycroft snuck up behind me while I was getting the things I needed for tonight's homework. I closed my locker and was turning around to leave, only to almost crash into Mycroft. I jumped and gasped audibly, jumping back and slamming into the lockers, but I got over that quickly (I'd become used to this eventually, sad to say).

I sighed.

"Sherlock?" I deadpanned.

"Yes, he seems to be evading me at the moment." Mycroft said, twirling the umbrella a bit.

I stared at him for a moment, through slightly narrowed eyes.

"If you know where he is, why don't you just go get him yourself?" I asked a bit exasperated.

"If I knew where he was, I wouldn't be coming to you, now would I, Miss Hallows." Mycroft responded in that odd, almost-clipped-but-not tone of his.

I looked at him, crossing my arms and raising my eyebrows. Mycroft soon gave his own exasperated sigh and looked away. I felt like he was embarrassed but his demeanour didn't show it and neither did his facial expression. Though he definitely showed more emotion than Sherlock did on a daily basis.

"I'll be waiting outside." he finally told me, before leisurely walking off, down the hall. I watched him go disbelievingly and begrudgingly, but went to look for Sherlock anyway. I mean, I didn't have to, but now I wanted to. I wanted to just talk about the white elephant in the room and get it over with. It'd be easier, a clean break, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

My first guess was correct, knowing him so well now: The chemistry lab. The teacher was tapping away on her keyboard, eyes intently fixed on the screen, so she didn't and hadn't noticed the boy in the back at one of the lab tables, his head resting on his notebook, eyes closed, and breath slow and low. He was beautiful when he slept. I would say childlike, but he was still just a child. Okay, so he was eleven, but that's still a kid. Well, anyway, his walls were completely down. He was off guard. His face was free of worry. He didn't have to hold the weight of the world on his shoulders, the weight of knowing how different he was and that he would always be rejected and ridiculed because of that.

I walked up quietly to him, biting my lip. I waited a moment before reaching over the table and gently prodding his shoulder. He jolted up instantly, taking in a deep breath. I took a step back, nervous now. And even though he'd just woken up from what looked like a deep sleep his eyes were bright blue, ever-keen orbs.

"Elizabeth," His tone sounded a bit surprised and his hands came forward to pull his open notebook closer to him. My eyes flickered down to it but he was already closing it by the time I did, giving me no glance into it. They flickered back to him. "You've been avoiding me." he stated, not explaining what was so secret about his notebook. But, then I supposed, if he wanted to tell me, he would (and he would, but that's another story and for a later time… a much later time).

"Yes, I—" I started, looking away, trying to think of what to say next.

"How much did you hear?" Sherlock asked, interrupting me. I looked at him again. He was wearing his poker face.

Tears welled up in my eyes at the mere thought and I sucked in a sharp breath, looking away and blinking rapidly to dispel the tears, or at the very least, keep them at bay. I looked around for a stool and quickly pulled one up next to him when I found one, sitting down and staring the table. Picking at the edge of it. I could feel his eyes on me, waiting for an answer.

"Most of it." I finally managed to whisper, more tears welling up in my eyes. "Did you… really… do that… for me?" I asked slowly, looking over at him, not able to stop the tears this time. Instead of answering, Sherlock's hand started to slowly come up toward my face. I froze as my pulse pounded. What was he doing?

I think my heart stopped when he caressed my face just long enough to stroke his thumb across my cheek and catch a stray tear, before he pulled away again.

"Why are you crying?" But his tone wasn't concerned, it was confused with a hint of disbelief, if my ears weren't tricking me. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, I quickly reached up and wiped my tears off my face, sniffling.

"You didn't have to do that for me, Sherlock." I told him truthfully, smiling through my watery eyes. "It was a sweet gesture, very sweet and very kind, but I _can_ take care of myself."

Sherlock looked down at the table this time, staring at one spot, keeping his eyes fixed on one spot.

"You don't know what it's like." he said quietly, so quiet I almost didn't catch him. "Elizabeth, you're kind and sweet. But you're also naïve. You don't want them to taunt you or push you around."

"Sherlock—" I tried.

"It doesn't matter to me." He snapped, his voice getting a tiny bit louder before quieting again. The teacher didn't seem to notice, still too focused on what she was working on. "They can push me around, they can taunt me, mock me. What they say doesn't mean _anything_. They're all idiots. I am impervious to their words and their taunts."

We sat there in silence as I processed this. As my mind slowly worked it, because I got that he wanted to protect me, to guard me and shelter me from the harsh world of reality, but I didn't understand why he cared so much. Don't get me wrong, it's probably one of the sweetest things a guy has ever done for me, however, I needed to go through some of these experiences just for the experience. To grow and build and make myself, my personality, to add to my knowledge.

I gently and cautiously rested a hand lightly on his upper forearm, looking at him with soft, sympathetic eyes and a small smile. Sherlock looked down at my hand before looking up at me questioningly, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

It had clicked, part of clicked right before I'd rested my hand on his arm, in that little pocket of eternity, just sitting there in the Chem lab. He was only protecting me from the pain that he felt daily, constantly. A never ending pain and loneliness that threatened to swallow him whole. He was lying to himself every time he said that it didn't matter, that it didn't bother him. Because—

"You don't have to be strong if you're impervious." I told him quietly.

* * *

**Credit to Bones (the television show) for that fantastic line that concluded this chapter, as well as the concept of “not being strong if you’re impervious” itself, that is the theme of this chapter.**


	5. Moments

The rest of Year Six was… well, it was rough, to say the least. I hated knowing that Sherlock was taking twice the bullying just to protect me, and we discussed this at length almost every single day after I'd found out, but at the same time I couldn't help but wonder if he was right. I mean, don't get me wrong, I wanted him to respect my decision to not let him take on all that by himself, but I also had to respect his decision to do so in the first place. And, I had to take into consideration that he was doing this to keep me from getting hurt.

Because the way he said that, the way he said, "You don't know what it's like." was utterly heart wrenching. Now, older, I realise why it was so heart wrenching, because looking back, I can hear the pain in his voice, but it wasn't just that. No, it was the sadness in his eyes. The longing, the… the… the _loneliness_. The loneliness I saw there that day was terrifying in more ways than one.

How could someone so young and so brilliant be hurting _so much_ inside? How could someone so young and so brilliant even handle it?

So, maybe he was right in some respects. I was very naïve back then, and innocent, and I probably wouldn't have been able to handle the teasing and taunting and being pushed around.

You know why he doesn't bring lunch to school? Why he stopped eating lunch all together? (He accidentally told me this when we were discussing why he should respect my decision and why I should respect his.) It was because after they found out how smart he was, they started stealing his lunch and either eating themselves, throw it on the ground and smash it with their shoes, or dump it on him.

I could see his point more after that, but I was still conflicted. I just didn't know what to do anymore. This was too much to think about for a twelve-year-old girl.

Year Six didn't hold the best memories for me. And I was nervous about Year Seven, but it actually turned out better than I expected. One memory sticks out, especially. Remember when I told you that when I'd woken Sherlock up in the Chemistry classroom he'd pulled his lab notebook away from me before quickly closing it. He'd been hiding something from me, and Year Seven was the year I found out just what he'd been hiding.

The day he showed me, the whole school had been required to go to an assembly. What we were assembling for was anybody's guess and I would never get to find out because, 1) I never bothered to ask later and 2) I didn't exactly go….

I was on my way other there when the bell had rung, slowly following the heard of people—trying not to bump into other people, trying not to feel claustrophobic surrounded by so many people cramming their way through only four doors—when suddenly someone grabbed my hand. I jumped, gasped and looked down, quickly following the arm to see Sherlock.

"Come on," he said, pulling me away from the crowd and the assembly. "I want to show you something."

"Wait… but—" I looked back at the kids all filtering through as Sherlock pulled me away from them. "The assembly." I looked back at Sherlock, who stopped to face me, but kept his hand in mine.

"What about it? It's just going to be about homework and bullying and the spread of germs. It's not important. Besides, it's not like _everyone_ goes to those, anyway." He pulled me again, but I resisted.

"How can you be so sure?" I asked, looking back at all the kids filing in, again before meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"That's what it was about last year." Sherlock deadpanned. "And the year before that. And the year before—listen, you should know this. You went to them, didn't you?"

I suddenly felt insulted and pulled my hand out of his, blood rushing up to my cheeks.

"Well… we're in secondary school now, I'm sure it's going to be a little different. And _important_." I told him haughtily.

Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes before startling me and taking a step closer to me, taking my hand into his again, startling me for the third time in less than five minutes. "Do you _really_ want to go?"

I looked over my shoulder as the last of the crowd started to make their way through before looking around the hall at all the other students who were walking _away_ from the assembly. Then I met Sherlock's eyes again, those gorgeous ever-changing eyes, that had been trained on me this whole time.

"No." I admitted. "Not really." I only went because I was afraid of getting in trouble. I mean, mandatory meant mandatory, didn't it? I didn't have time to ponder this too much because Sherlock gripped my hand a little tighter and smiled before pulling me down the hall. I wasn't sure where we were going for a few hallways, but suddenly I recognized the path he was taking us, it was the way I always walked to the Chem room if I was ever looking for him (which was a lot; he was always doing some sort of experiment and would forget about lunch or helping me in math).

"Are we allowed to be doing this?" I asked in a quiet voice as Sherlock opened the door (which was surprisingly unlocked).

"No, probably not." Sherlock said casually letting go of my hand and walking into the room. "Shut the door, will you? And turn off the lights."

I gaped at him for a moment, trying to get words to come out of my mouth but nothing came and after a short moment I merely sighed and shut the door, flicking the switch down—which made the room considerably darker, for the blinds were also closed—before I followed him to the back of the room where the lab tables were located.

"Won't the teacher notice if some of the chemicals and things go missing?" I asked, still in a hushed voice.

"I've talked to her about this. She knows I'm going to be using some of the chemicals." He paused as he pulled out a white-ish mixture in beaker and a box of matches (which had me a little worried). "Just not when I was going to use them." He finished, grabbing two pairs of safety glasses and handing one to me. "Here put these on."

"Sherlock…" I looked at him reluctantly.

"It's going to be fine. We won't get in trouble and you won't be hurt. I promise." He said in a persuasive voice. My eyes flickered to the matches. "I _promise_." he said again, putting a little more force behind his words.

I bit my lip, thinking about this. I was curious. And I knew Sherlock knew what he was doing. I'd only feel safe with him in the Chem lab. But, still… fire? There was going to be fire?

As if he could read my mind, Sherlock spoke, "It'll only be a little fire. And only for a few minutes or so. You won't get hurt." He reassured.

I slowly took the glasses from his hand and put them on. All the while Sherlock put his on, also getting a paper towel wet and wiping down the counter before drying it off. He then washed his hands and lower forearms before also drying them off. I did the same.

We turned back to the counter where Sherlock took the beaker with the odd, white-ish mixture and scooped up what was inside, pushing it into his hand and squeezing a clear liquid out, while forming the white mixtures into a ball a little bigger than a table tennis ball.

He then put the beaker aside and set the little white ball onto the table, before striking a match and lighting up the white ball. The flames shot up an inch or two from the ball, in a beautiful mix of orange and bluesih-green.

"Wow," I whispered, in awe. I may not be good a chemistry, but it was amazing what you could do with the knowledge of it. Sherlock started rinsing off his hands and arms again.

"You can pick it up, if you want." he said, suddenly, grabbing a paper towel to dry off. My eyes shot over to him in astonishment.

"What?"

"Yeah, you can pick it up. It's totally harmless."

"I don't know…"

"Here," Sherlock threw the paper towel away and gently scooped the flaming ball into his hands—earning a gasp and a small squeak of fright for him—tossing it back and forth between his hands before setting it down on the table again and showing me his hands. "See." He grinned.

I instantly took his hands into mine, examining the palms. Not a scorch. Not a single mark. Nothing.

"How does… how does that even work?" I asked a little breathlessly, still not believing my eyes quite yet.

"The flame isn't hot enough to burn your hands. And as long as you've washed your hands of any substance that's flammable, you should be able to pick the ball without any injury. It's call the California Snowball, because California is usually hot and doesn't get snow. Well, part of it anyway." Sherlock explained.

I looked back at the still flaming snowball. The colours just amazing. I don't think I'd even seen a flame like that before.

"You should try and pick it up." He said, pushing it toward me.

I shook my head, biting my lip and staring at the flames still emitting from the ball. "I don't know…" Even though he'd just demonstrated that I'd be fine, I was still worried something would happen. I mean, you grow up learning that fire would burn you, always. Going against the grain of that was hard and terrifying.

Sherlock gently grasped my wrist and my head snapped up to him.

"Sherlock!" I gasped.

"Do you trust me?" he asked in a soft voice, meeting my eyes steadily.

I swallowed hard. "Of course," I whispered. Not looking away from me, he gently turned my hand over, keeping his palm underneath mine.

"I'm just going to drop it into your hand and you can quickly drop it into mine, okay?" He asked gently.

I nodded, but was unable to verbally answer because I was freaking out. My heart was pounding and my stomach was quivering, but Sherlock continued to keep his hand underneath mine, keeping a promise that I wouldn't get hurt. And that in itself was comforting. And when was I ever going to get another chance to hold a flaming "snowball"? I mean, I was nervous. I was _so_ nervous, but I was also excited. I loved cool science things, even if I didn't quite understand the chemistry behind them. They were still interesting and fun to watch and learn about, even if I didn't quite remember it later.

"I'm going to put into your hand now." Sherlock said, breaking me out of my reverie. I nodded, my heart going double time. It was rather quick, he picked it up and rolled it into my palm. I jumped a little, but Sherlock kept his hand underneath mine and when I realised that it wasn't burning me I became fascinated with the concept. It was definitely warm, but it wasn't burning me at all. And when it became hot, I simply turned my palm and let it roll into Sherlock's hand, who then rolled it back onto the table.

I was grinning by now.

"That was so cool!" I exclaimed. "This is _so_ much better than an assembly." I turned toward Sherlock. "Thank you."

He shrugged. "There's no need to thank me. I just thought it would be a fun little thing to show you." He picked up a beaker then and put it over the still flaming "snowball", swiftly extinguishing it. "We should go before the assembly ends, however." He said, taking off his safety glasses. "Could you get the lights?"

I took my glasses off, leaving them on the table top, and went to turn on the lights while Sherlock cleaned up, which was quite quick because I turned around and he was already heading toward me, his backpack slung over his shoulder, mine in one of his hands. I took it from him, mumbling a thank you as he opened the door and peeked out.

"Looks like we've got a few minutes." Sherlock said, opening the door wider and stepping out, closing the door again after I'd stepped out as well. "I'll see you at lunch?"

"Oh, yep. See you later." I said, a little startled by his sudden, on-the-go kind of air. He gave me a quick, small smile before heading off down the hall. I shook my head and let out a small chuckle. I really shouldn't have expected anything else, though. Sherlock was different when it came to intimate things. He always was and always had been. And when I say intimate, I don't mean romantically, or anything. I mean intimate when forming personal relationships with people. We'd had an intimate moment back there, but I wasn't sure how much Sherlock took away from that.

I would come to find out just how much he would take away from that, though, at a much later date. In other words, another story for another time.


	6. When I Close My Eyes

The rest of Year 7 was a lot easier after that experiment Sherlock had shown me. It was moments like those that I really enjoyed about our relationship because I felt that it really strengthened our bond, which sounds _extremely cheesy_ , I know, but it was true. Moments like those in… anyone's life would do that. That year also went by relatively quickly and without any other big incidents. For the most part, it was all quiet the rest of the year.

And as the years of knowing each other grew, so did our friendship and how personal we got, how much we started opening up to each other, how much more we told each other. I mean, don't get me wrong, Sherlock was still an enigma to me, even with all the things he'd told me throughout the years. But each year, he'd open up a little more, inch by inch and I got a better glimpse inside his head. I know I've probably said this a few times, but it was true. He only opened up so much every year. And sometimes I'd even wonder and doubt that he'd ever open up to me fully, trust me fully (as I already did him). But then he'd smile at me, his eyes crinkling in the corners, his whole face lighting up, or he'd start to chuckle, at first, then it turned into somewhat of a giggle as he tried to keep it under control, before he finally gave up and broke into laughter.

It was in those moments I was reminded that he was learning to trust me. He was learning that I was, and always would be, there for him. I wasn't going to leave. And I most certainly wasn't using him for anything, I had no ulterior motives. He was my friend and I, his.

When you spend so much time with one person, you pick up on their small idiosyncrasies and quirks that make them who they are. That was me with Sherlock. Before long I was able to pick him out a crowd of people almost instantly. I could tell you if it was him walking from a distance because I'd become so accustomed to the way he walked and held himself. I'd come to love how he'd talk, too. I was able to keep up better when he got _really_ excited and starting speaking _really_ quickly. And though I didn't understand half of what he said because it was science jargon, I still enjoyed listening to him speak. And our conversations during lunch or the few minutes as we waited for him to be picked up after our tutoring session.

I still didn't know how much that moment in the Chem lab had meant to him, but I could tell that it had impacted him in some way. Like that one special day, during the year. He usually didn't do anything big for it, sometimes just a sentence, but this year—this year was different. _Way_ different.

I'd just entered the lunch room and instantly, as they had ever since I became friends with Sherlock, my eyes flew toward our table. And I called it that because we always sat there, and no one else would. The kids would change and move, but that table always seemed free.

Today was different, however, because instead of a boy with curls of dark hair atop his head, the table was completely empty. I paused for a moment, thinking back to earlier this morning. He was here. He'd definitely been here. Maybe he was running late or something. Either way, I made my way over to the table and was just about to sit down when someone slipped their hand into mine.

I jumped and quickly looked. I had just enough time to ask, "Sherlock?" in a startled voice before he was pulling me away, giving me even less time to grab my lunchbox. And then he was quickly pulling me toward the exit, with no explanation, his grip on my hand tight. "Sherlock, wait," I said as soon as the lunchroom doors closed. I tried to stop him too, but he was strong. Much stronger than I assumed. He wasn't lanky, he was lean and I had a feeling underneath that uniform were well toned muscles.

He kept pulling me, his long legs making it hard to keep up with him. Finally we came to a stop behind a corner. He peeked around it, his hand still firmly in mine, and I caught my breath. When he pulled back I opened my mouth to ask him what he was doing and where we were going but he held a finger up to his lips, signalling for me to stay silent.

I gave him a reproachful look, but kept quiet. A few moments later I heard the sound of a door being closed and locked before footsteps started coming in our direction. Suddenly, we were in motion again, and on a crash-course for the teacher.

It was quick and very unsuspecting. Sherlock quickly pulled back and apologised to the teacher before pulling me away, but slower. The urgent air he'd had around him a moment ago vanished. And when the teacher vanished, he went up to the door I assumed that teacher had just come out of. Sherlock then pulled out a lanyard with four or five keys.

My mouth dropped.

"Sherlock, those aren't—" I started, looking over my shoulder to the hall that the teacher he'd crashed into had gone.

"I'll return them before she even notices, don't worry." he said, flippantly.

"Sherlock!" I exclaimed in a surprised whisper.

He paused in opening the door and looked at me.

"Are you angry?" he asked, in a low voice.

I took a breath and paused, thinking about my response.

"Yes," I finally said, pausing to let him think about that for a second. "I'm angry that you didn't teach me how to do that."

Sherlock chuckled and the corner of his mouth lifted up into the half smile I'd come to love.

"Come on," he said, turning back to the door and opening it up.

"But that doesn't mean that it's right and that you should ever pickpocket a teacher." I added as I followed him into the dark room. He simply smiled and shut the door, dousing us in darkness, but this only lasted for a few seconds because Sherlock then flicked a switch the room was bathed in light.

"What are we doing in here?" I asked, looking around the music room. It had rows of chairs, forming a loose semi-circle facing the front of the room. Stands for music sheets stood in front of them, some of them lower or higher than others. To my left was a grand piano. Behind all the chairs were drums and keyboards and xylophones. Behind those instruments were cupboards and closets. And breaking them up were two separate doors that led to back rooms, which I've no doubt held more instruments.

"It's a surprise." Sherlock said, coming up to me and taking my hand again and leading me over to one of the chairs. "Sit down and close your eyes. Keep them closed until I say, okay?"

I bit my lip and looked at him warily. He gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

"You trust me, don't you?" he asked softly.

"You know I do." I told him quietly, before taking a deep breath and sitting down. He let go of my hand and I slowly closed my eyes. I heard him move around the room and the opening of one of the cupboards. I tried to keep my eyes shut, which was proving a hardship. I was curious as to what Sherlock wanted to show me.

I held my breath when I heard him come up to me and the scraping of a chair's legs on the tile floor. Then silence for a few moments.

"Okay," Sherlock said so quiet, I almost didn't hear him. For a moment I even thought I'd imagined it. But I slowly opened my eyes. Sherlock was sitting in front of me now, with a violin in hand. I opened my mouth to say... something (I can't quite recall what I'd planned to say) but the words died in my throat when he lifted the violin onto his shoulder and under his chin and drug the bow across the strings.

My breath caught when he started to play _Für_ Elise. I'd told him however long ago that _Für_ Elise had been my favourite compositions by Beethoven. And it sounded splendid on the violin. I wanted to close my eyes and just let the sweet music envelope me, but resisted that urge because watching Sherlock play was... magical.

He seemed so... himself. His whole body swayed with the music and his eyes were closed in concentration. His brow was slightly, but only slightly, furrowed. It just seemed like his walls came down and he was revealing his true self, without the worry of hurt or pain. He could be himself and not have anyone ridicule him for it. He opened up, blossomed like a flower. It was beautiful.

The song came to an end and Sherlock drew the bow over the sting, letting that last, slightly melancholy, note hang in the air. He stayed in position for a moment after before opening his eyes and setting the violin in his lap. I could see his walls go up and the air around him change, but I was still lost in the music.

Suddenly he reached over and gently ran his index finger underneath my eye, catching a tear. I gasped and quickly reached up to scrub them away, sniffling.

"That was... that was beautiful, Sherlock." I said through my tears, not quite able to stop myself. "I didn't... I didn't know you played." I looked at him again, smiling through my watery eyes, telling him I was okay.

He gave me a small smile back. "Well, I didn't until about a week ago. My mum insisted I take up an instrument." He looked down at the violin, as if embarrassed, and started gently plucking the strings. "I found it's soothing. Calming. The sound is... comforting and it helps my mind quiet and focus on something." He stopped plucking the strings and looked back up at me.

"That was beautiful, Sherlock." I told him again, reaching over and taking his hand into mine. I couldn't believe, though, he'd learned such a complicated song in under a week. Then I suppose, he would, wouldn't he.

He smiled a smile that lit up his whole face—a smile I'd seen only once or twice before grace his features—before leaning forward and kissing me on the cheek. He then pulled back, but to be able to murmur in my ear:

"Happy Birthday, Elizabeth."


	7. Believe

We started celebrating holidays after that, but in a rather unorthodox way. Well, at least deviating from social norms. No big parties or celebrations, but quiet, intimate get-togethers that were nicer for both of us, seeing as we both weren't very social people. They weren't anything terribly "special", either. I mean, sometimes it'd be a small, simple gift exchange and sometimes Sherlock and I would hang out in the Chem room after school and he'd show me another cool experiment. Things like that. It was nice.

I was surprised I didn't hear more rumours about Sherlock and I, to be honest, seeing as we nearly always hung out together. It could've been that Sherlock was protecting me, again (which, I might add, we still had small arguments over), but rumours were hard to keep from anyone.

Anyway, what I mean is that I was surprised there weren't any rumours going around. Don't get me wrong, I was appreciative of this fact, but it still was surprising to me. I suppose I really shouldn't have been thinking about it as hard as I was back then, because you know that they say: Be careful what you wish for. That pretty much summed up Year 9.

I looked out the window as I headed to gather my things from my locker and sighed heavily at what I saw. It wasn't that I wasn't used to rain, but today seemed like a particularly nasty day. It was pouring. And when I say pouring, I mean you couldn't see ten feet away because it was just a sheet of rain.

I trudged the rest of the way to my locker and slowly grabbed my things. I pulled out my umbrella as I exited the building and then swiftly out into the rain. And though it was chilly and wet everywhere, I loved hearing the sound of the rain hitting my umbrella. Something about the sound was just... soothing in a way.

I was walking down the semi-long driveway that lead to the school when suddenly I heard my name being called. I jumped before looking over my shoulder to see Sherlock. Except he was in a car, the window down. I blinked processing this for a moment before going up to the car and leaning over slightly to be able to hear him over the rain and also blocking the inside of the car from the rain.

"Sherlock?" I asked a little breathless. I didn't want to stand around for too long because I was already getting cold.

"Would you like a ride home?" Sherlock asked.

"What?" I exclaimed, shocked by this gesture for some reason. "Oh, no, I'm fine. I live only a few streets down."

"Yes, I know." Sherlock said. "But it's pouring and cold. Are you sure you don't want a ride?"

"I have an umbrella. The cold won't last for very long. I'll be fine. Besides, I couldn't burden you with such a short drive when I could easily walk." The car behind Sherlock's honked its horn and glanced over to see a line of cars waiting for Sherlock's to move. I looked back at Sherlock who was either oblivious or didn't care, as usual.

"Thank you for the offer, but I'm fine." I said quickly before stepping away from the window. "Bye, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow." I started heading away again but Sherlock called my name again.

"The offer stands. If you need or want a ride at any time, just ask." he told me.

I smiled and nodded. "Okay. Thank you." Sherlock gave a small wave before rolling up the window. The car then quickly drive past me, as did the other cars that had been held up because of it. I watched it go before starting my walk back home again.

The next day, I found Serena waiting by my locker that morning. I guess I should've mentioned, Serena had been a new student at the beginning of this year. She was from America, a state called Oregon, to be exact. I had befriended her the first day she got here because I noticed her looking very lost and slightly confused, so I went to see if she needed any help. It turned out that she was, indeed, lost but was too stubborn to use the map she was given. So I directed her to her class and she somehow found me during lunch, where she met Sherlock.

I wouldn't call them friends, but they got along nicely. Sometimes they'd have small altercations when Sherlock did one of his deductions or started speaking too quickly, but those were few and far between. They started to get used to each other. She did hang out with other kids at the school more than she hung out with me and Sherlock, and I think that put a strain on their relationship because Sherlock was afraid she would be "brainwashed" into thinking he was a freak, however she never brought it up or picked on him like the others, so it worked out. She was also very outgoing, extroverted and blunt, and I think Sherlock liked that because she told it how it was, which Sherlock tended to do quite a lot.

I still wouldn't call them friends… well, at least, not in the way Sherlock and I were friends, but she was a pretty nice person all in all.

So, anyway, as I was saying she was standing in front of my locker smiling like a madwoman, which had me instantly concerned.

I unconsciously slowed my walk as I got to her, looking at her reproachfully. She rolled her eyes and stepped out of the way as I slowly reached for the dial on my locker.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, you act like I'm going to murder you." She sighed, leaning against the lockers. I didn't relax, but I did look away so I could see what I was doing.

"Okay, so what then?" I asked as I grabbed the things for my first class.

She giggled. "You should know." She hit my arm playfully.

I looked at her with the expression that said I had _no idea_ what she was talking about.

She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes again before waving me over to her. I narrowed my eyes before hesitantly leaning in. She leaned in too, whispering a rumour that'd been flying around since yesterday and into today, which I thought was odd. It just seemed to have travelled scarily fast. But, I only find it odd now. Then, I was too caught up in shock and embarrassment.

"What?" I exclaimed, pulling back sharply, blood rushing up to my cheeks.

"So? Did you? How was it? Is he a good kisser?" Serena asked, her hazel eyes bright and shining with excitement.

"Shh!" I chastised her as some girls passed and my face turned redder.

"Well?"

"No!" I exclaimed in a whisper. "No, we didn't kiss. I can't believe someone started that rumour. It's not true. Not true _at all_."

Serena laughed. "But you've certainly thought about kissing him, haven't you?" She smiled mischievously. I was about to deny it—though it was a lie—when the boy in question come up to us. We had a class together this morning and we always walked to it together.

"Hey, handsome." Serena greeted Sherlock with a wink. This only made my face flush again. I looked down at the floor, trying to hide it as best as I could. I felt too mortified to speak. I could hear Serena snicker at this.

"Hello… Serena," Sherlock greeted. I could hear the confusion in his voice, but he hid it well. If I hadn't known him so well, I wouldn't have heard it at all.

"Well, I'm off to class. See you two lovebirds later." She sang, skipping off down the hall. My head snapped up when she said "lovebirds" and I watched her go, my mouth wide open.

"I don't understand." Sherlock said, also watching her go, his eyebrows furrowed slightly.

"Don't worry about it." I muttered, closing my locker. "We should probably head to class, too."

"Elizabeth, are you all right?" he asked as I started in the direction of our class.

"I'm fine." I deadpanned, continuing to walk. It would only be much, _much_ later that I told him what we were talking about that day, to Sherlock's annoyance. But I was only fourteen. I wasn't ready to really address those feelings I'd started forming toward Sherlock. It was all very confusing and scary, so I focused on school and tried not to let them get in the way of our friendship.

So, the problem with that rumour, was that it was hard to falsify, because of the time we spent together. Then, came that one day… that one extremely rain day….

The rain was pouring in sheets that day. The hallways weren't filled with kids talking and chattering after school had gotten out and instead were filled with the sound of the rain hitting the window. I wasn't too disturbed by this, because I'd become accustomed to walking home in the rain. Well, that is until I got to my locker and realised that I'd forgotten my umbrella at home. This morning there hadn't been a single drop.

Sherlock found me tearing my locker apart trying to find it.

"Can't find your umbrella?" he asked as he came up to me.

I sighed and froze in my searching, finally getting that no matter how many times I looked, it was wasn't going to be there.

"No," I told him, closing my locker and shouldering my messenger bag.

"Still don't want a ride?" He questioned as we headed toward the exit.

"I'm sure it's not that bad outside. It just sounds bad because of the windows." I said, making excuses. "I don't want to burden you with such a short drive."

Boy was I wrong. There was a small square that was covered as soon as you exited the building, leading to stairs down to the pavement and into the rain. Sherlock and I stood at the very edge, just within the dry zone, staring out at the rain pouring down.

"I insist, Elizabeth." Sherlock said, turning to face me, as his usual black car pulled up to the curb and stopped. I stared at it through the rain. I really didn't want to get soaked. My parents worked, so they couldn't pick me up and I didn't take the bus because I didn't exactly like public transportation.

"It's really no trouble at all." Sherlock added after a few moments of silence, as I continued to contemplate.

This rain wasn't going to let up any time soon.

"Okay," I finally said. I didn't want to get soaked and I didn't want to get sick, either. The sprint to the car got me pretty wet, but not nearly as much as it would've had I walked home without my umbrella. Sherlock, being the gentleman he was, opened the door for me and I quickly slid in. He followed suit.

"Hello, Nicholas." Sherlock greeted as he shut the door.

"Hello, Sherlock." He greeted back, looking at him through the rear view mirror, before shifting his eyes to me. "And who is this pretty lady with you, today?"

"This is my friend, Elizabeth Hallows." Sherlock introduced.

"Ah, yes, Elizabeth. Sherlock's told me a lot about you, Miss." Nicholas said with a smile and a gleam in his eyes.

My mouth dropped slightly and I looked over at Sherlock who was looking down at the floor, and if my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, a faint blush stained his cheeks. But at that particular moment it wasn't exactly the fact that he talked about me to other people (a lot apparently), it was that this man wasn't Sherlock's father. He was an older man, with greying hair.

"You have a personal driver?" I asked in a whisper.

Sherlock met my gaze. "Yes," I could see his walls come up at this and I found I was a little hurt that he thought I'd judge him at this point in our relationship.

"I don't want to burden you with such a short drive. I couldn't. I can walk." I started reaching for the door handle but Sherlock grabbed my wrist.

"Elizabeth," His voice was annoyed. "You're going to get sick walking out in such heavy rain."

"It's my job, Miss. I don't mind at all. A friend of Sherlock's is a friend of mine." Nicholas added with a sweet smile.

I took my hand off the door handle and Sherlock let go of my wrist.

"Where to, Miss Hallows?" Nicholas asked as I buckled my seatbelt.

I told him my address and added, "Please, call me Lizzy." (Oh, and by the way, I tried to convince Sherlock to call me Lizzy, but he insisted on calling me Elizabeth. He never explained why, he just did. It's not that I don't like the name Elizabeth, Lizzy was just shorter and easier to say. I didn't, and still don't, mind Sherlock calling me by Elizabeth… in fact, if I recall correctly, he's probably the only one who calls me Elizabeth. Even my parents don't call me Elizabeth. They're the ones who gave me my nickname Lizzy in first place.)

I didn't start always taking rides from Sherlock after that, but if it was an extremely cold day or I wasn't feeling well, the car was always there for me. And I took rides often enough that I came to know Nicholas a little better. Sherlock even had the car sent for me, though he wasn't at school that day because he'd gotten sick. I'm sure he'd put up a fight, but the parents must've won to keep him home. I swear, that boy didn't know his limits sometimes.

It was sweet. It didn't exactly help the rumours and Serena ate it up, but at that point I didn't care. I didn't care about the rumours. Sticks and stones, right? From the ones I heard, I thought they were all pretty amusing, actually. That didn't mean they weren't annoying from time to time, but if you started ignoring them, neither affirming nor denying anything about anything, they start to lose interest and soon, stop talking.

So, what happened wasn't exactly monumental, I know. But… it was the little things. It was always the little things with Sherlock. (Like him and pirates.) It didn't seem like much, and it didn't seem to open that door to his mind very much wider, to me anyway, but there was still movement, even if it was miniscule. These things took time, especially when you weren't used being in a healthy relationship.

Sometimes I'd see just how insecure he was about this, even after all this time. It wasn't like, he was totally and completely insecure because it had been seven years since we'd met, but there'd be a flash in his eyes, or when he was having a bad day, it'd show a little more. It only seemed natural that he'd still feel this way, because he wasn't sure if at any moment I was going to drop everything and turn on him. On some level, this hurt. To know that after all this time, he still had some insecurity, but I couldn't fault him for that. I really couldn't. Not only was he human, he was also a very broken human and I was slowly making him whole again.

One time during that year he was having a particularly bad day, which also happened to be a particularly bad day weather wise as well. He was silent for the most part, and his face was in deep concentration, but I could see how upset he was because it wasn't his usual thinking face, it had an edge to it. I was too nervous about bringing it up because I was afraid I had done something to offend him or hurt his feelings and I wasn't quite sure how to address it.

I finally worked up the courage to talk to him about it, when we were seated in the car and I just couldn't take the deafening silence anymore.

"Sherlock," I began, looking down at my tightly clasped hands in my lap. "If I've done something to upset you, I'm—" I broke off when I felt his hand gently touch my shoulder. I looked over at him hesitantly, to meet his soft green-blue eyes.

"No, it's nothing like that." He assured me, taking his hand off my shoulder. "I'm… sorry for giving you the wrong idea. I was just upset, but not with you. I've just had a lot on my mind lately." He paused and looked down at his own lap, biting his lip. I was slightly surprised at such a show of emotion, of showing me how uncomfortable he was. "I guess… I guess, I'm so used to putting up a wall around everyone. Even my parents. But," He looked back at me, "I've just become so used being around you, so comfortable around you, that I unknowingly let my guard down. I hope I didn't upset you too much. There's no need for you to apologise, because you've done nothing wrong."

This comforted me in some ways. It told me that he really was learning to open up to me and trust me. And that he showed that insecurity told me that he was comfortable showing me just how insecure he still was without worrying that I'd judge him for it. So I did my best not to and believed that he'd one day come to trust me as I trusted him.


	8. Before the Storm

Things were quiet. Quiet last year (despite the rumours that floated around, and still do) and quiet this year… for the most part. Rumours had been the biggest of my worries last year. This year, though, this year was a little different. Not necessarily in a bad way, but I was a teenage girl with raging hormones. It was difficult to supress the feelings I'd started forming for Sherlock this year more than ever. Especially because of the fact that Sherlock hit puberty this year—his voice progressively and noticeably getting deeper and hitting a growth spurt and becoming at least a head taller than me by the middle of the year.

It just spelled disaster, both of us teenagers with raging hormones (as much as Sherlock would hate to admit, or even deny it). And I didn't want to push or pressure him. He was still figuring out life, figuring out what our friendship meant to him, and I didn't want to throw my feelings for him on top of all that. He didn't seem like the relationship, romantic type of guy, either, so that was another thing stopping me.

But, you know, other than that… that year was… quiet. I'd be lying if I told you nothing happened, but compared to what came next year, this had been a blip on the radar, next year had been a hurricane with gale force winds and rain combined with hail the size of baseballs. So, yeah, this year had been "quiet." You may not agree, but it was the truth. However, we can't get into next year quite yet, because even though that blip had been just that, a blip, it was still imprinted in my memory, a day I'll never forget, for as long as I live.

"Did you forget your umbrella, today?" Sherlock asked quietly, startling me from my wallowing in self-pity. I had been leaning against my locker with the crown of my head pressed up against the cold, hard metal, my eyes staring down at the floor. I was overreacting, I know, but—and I'd never admit this out loud to Sherlock—I always felt bad when he gave me a ride home. I just did, okay? I always felt was I was taking up his time as well as the driver's time, too. So I tried as best I could to bring my umbrella to school and not ride with him unless I knew I was going to get soaked.

I sighed and pushed away from the locker, standing up straight and looking at him, nodding.

"Is riding with me really—" He broke off suddenly and cleared his throat when his voice cracked, looking away, embarrassed. I couldn't help the pull at the edges of my lips at this. He'd hit puberty at the beginning of this year (as I have stated before) so his voice cracked every now and again. Hence why he spoke quietly to me most of the time. He couldn't avoid voice cracks and I never made fun of him for it, but he was always embarrassed about it, and I noticed didn't talk as much as he used to because of it.

"Is riding with me really that bad?" He said again, slower, meeting my eyes when he'd finished.

"No," I said quickly. "Of course not. It's just, I promised to stay after school to help decorate the gym for the dance. I don't want you to have to wait around for me." I looked out the windows at the pouring rain. "I don't think this rain'll be letting up any time soon, though..." I muttered mostly to myself.

"Elizabeth—" Sherlock started, but was cut off this time by a group of the girls who'd also volunteered coming down the hall. Of the group, Serena was also there.

"Hey, Lizzy!" She called, as they came toward me and Sherlock. "Come on, it's time to go decorate!" She looped her arm into mine and started pulling me with the rest of the group.

"No, wait—" I protested, resisting a bit and looking back at Sherlock. "I'm sorry," I said quickly for Serena was unrelenting. "I'll see you later, okay? Have a safe drive home."

"Bye, Elizabeth," Sherlock responded quietly before I was completely pulled out of earshot.

"See you later, handsome!" Serena called over her shoulder, causing me to whip around and glare at her as blood rushed up to my cheeks. It'd become a thing after that whole kissing rumour last year, it had become her new nickname for him. I tried to get her to stop, but she wouldn't let up. She only said she would if I finally admitted my feelings for him. And because, at the time, I was still in denial about this, I admitted nothing, causing her to call him handsome all the time. Sherlock didn't seem to mind too much, considering he never asked Serena to stop, but it always reminded me of my confused feelings and made my blush.

She gave me a sly look in response to my glare and smirked as we continued to walk down the hall, arms still looped. I looked back at Sherlock over my shoulder. He rolled his eyes and I smiled before turning back to the front.

The gym was pretty big, but thankfully there were quite a few people who were helping decorate, including two teachers to make sure we didn't do any damage to the property. We were decorating for a masquerade, so there were a lot of whites and golds, royal blues and purples. The tables that were set up had white tablecloths thrown over them with a large, gaudy decorative flower centrepiece, that some of the students put together as other students set up garlands and hung other decorations on the walls. At the end, when everything had been set up and looked fairly well, the teachers lowered a disco ball from the ceiling that I'd never seen until now.

I went up to one of the teachers and asked if that wasn't to fashion-forward for a masquerade, though it'd been cleverly disguised to kind of look like a chandelier. Instead of answering she smiled, turned off the lights and turn on the disco ball. It spun slowly, the little squares of light circling with it around the room. It was actually quite beautiful. It fit the decorations well, which was surprising, all things considered. It still felt a bit off for a masquerade, but I couldn't argue that it wasn't a good addition. I guess they they'd been going for a new age masquerade.

Before you say anything, I didn't go. I know it sounds odd, but I felt no need to. Of course, Serena tried to convince me to, but I held firm. I didn't tell her exactly why when she asked, but I have a feeling she knew…. I'd tried to get Sherlock to go as soon as they announced that our school was going to hold a dance, especially a masquerade one, but he held firm about not going, as well. Which, I suppose, I could understand. Dances were social gatherings and Sherlock… well, wasn't all that social. He didn't like big crowds. And that was understandable. So I didn't push him any further on the subject.

That was my main reason for not going. The other reason was because, though I did have a pretty decent group of friends, I knew they'd probably join others who either didn't like me or I just wasn't friends with them, which would make things a bit awkward. And, I wasn't a very social person either. I could put a front and socialise with people if I needed to, but at the end of the day, I really enjoyed me time. I enjoyed being able to relax and recharge to some classical music or with one of my favourite books. So, all of that added together made me really not want to go.

I did, however, also volunteer to help clean up the next morning before school. So that meant waking up early and going in about an hour and half early—they weren't sure how much time was going to be needed to clean up what with all the tables and tablecloths, and all the stuff hanging from the walls.

I was probably half-awake that morning and as I was getting ready (which my parents won't ever let me live down because, apparently, what I said was "comedic gold"), which would explain why I got their about a half hour early. I vaguely remember my parents telling me something about being early, but I had read the clock wrong and was already out the door. I guess they didn't have the time to tell me this before they had to leave for work, so there I was, at school with 30 minutes to spare.

Instead of roaming the empty halls like I usually did if I had time to kill and was stuck at school (it did no good to walk back home because home was fifteen minutes away; by the time I'd get back, I'd just have to turn around and head back to the school), I sat in the gym, at one of the tables, with the lights off and the disco ball on, watching the dancing squares of lights on the walls and imagining what it would've been like last night. Or rather, what it would've been like at a real masquerade with a small stringed quartet playing music for guests who were dressed in period-piece dresses and suits (for the lack of a better word). There were people waltzing, other laughing quietly, champagne in their hands. I could practically hear the music….

Suddenly, actual music started playing. My eyes snapped open and I turned my head in the direction of the speakers, embarrassed for a moment until I saw a familiar figure walking toward me. I wasn't embarrassed anymore, but my heart still raced and I could feel my face heating up.

I stood to greet him but instead stammered out, "Sh-Sherlock, hi. I… I didn't know you-you came here this early."

He gave me a half smile.

"I like to—" He looked away, clearing his throat as his voice cracked. "I like to study here, early in the morning. It's nice without so many people." He looked out at the gym and the slowly spinning lights. I could kind of hear the silent apology for not coming. I didn't blame him for not wanting to be around so many people, especially people who ridiculed him.

I pointed to the speakers that were still playing music and looked at Sherlock after a moment of no speaking.

"Did you… turn that music on?" I asked.

He half-smiled again and gave me a mysterious look, not answering me. A few seconds passed before the song changed to something I hadn't heard before, but apparently Sherlock had because as the first song was fading into the second one, he took a step away from me and held out his hand.

"Would you like to dance?" he asked politely.

I blushed and look down at the floor, mumbling lamely, "I… I don't know how to dance."

Without warning, Sherlock grabbed my hand and pulled me toward him and into his arms, his right hand resting on my waist, the left holding my right. I let out a startled squeak and was about to ask him what he was doing but the words died in my throat when he leaned in close to whisper in my ear (his scent washing over me, making my breath catch), "Just follow my lead." His voice was soft and low which made it sound deeper than I'd ever heard it before and this made shivers run down my spine. I tried not to start panicking. I can tell you, though, my heart was in a frenzy.  
Sherlock pulled back and I nodded, unable to speak, telling him I understood. (I mean I was already here, why not? Isn't that what I'd been wanting last night anyway?) Almost before I'd even finished nodding we were flying. Not literally, of course, but he'd twirled us out onto the dance floor. It was an odd sensation because I never really thought I was a good dancer, but when I was with Sherlock, it's like it all fell into place. We fell into step with each other and I could anticipate his move so as to not embarrass myself and step on his feet.

I don't know how long we were twirling around in the gym but suddenly the tempo of the song slowed and so did our dancing. We stood under the disco ball, swaying and turning in a small circle. Sherlock leaned down again, wrapping his arm around my waist, basically pulling me against him—which I could never figure out if it had been a conscious or unconscious decision, and still don't know to this day—and said, "I thought you said you couldn't dance."

I blushed and looked off to the side.

"I thought I couldn't," I mumbled before slowly looking up at him. "But, with you… it comes pretty naturally."

Our dancing stopped ever so slowly as we continued to look at each other. I could feel an emotion—a torrent of emotions, really—that I'd fought so hard to keep at bay well up inside me as the moment stretched on and on and into, what felt like, forever. My pulse pounded and I felt like my throat was closing. I was also very aware of my surroundings, very away of Sherlock's arm around my waist, very aware of our hands still intertwined from our dancing, very aware of the heat coming from his body, very aware of his breathing (shallow and uneven). He was definitely being affected by this. He was good at hiding it, but I'd known him long enough to be able to tell what he was feeling, as much as he tried to hide it. Sometimes it'd take me a bit, because he was, in all honesty, very good at hiding his emotions, but today, this morning, right now his guard was down and I could read him.

I don't know what happened or how it happened, but I saw him start to lean down, towards me. I felt my breath catch in my throat and saw Sherlock stop breathing. It was a slow process, but I was still gathering my bearings when he was so close that I closed my eyes, so close that our lips brushed, sending wave after wave of chills down my spine, making me feel lightheaded, and my knees weak.

Before anything could happen though, voices echoed into the gym. They were loud and there were quite a few of them. It must've been the rest of the volunteers here to help clean up. With the moment ruined, Sherlock and I both stepped away from each other, locking eyes as we did so.

A silent agreement: This wasn't to be spoken of to anyone, and when the time came, only we would discuss what just happened.

Sounds a bit odd, the way I worded it, I know, but I think Sherlock was rubbing off on me by then. What had happened was a… lapse of some kind, as Sherlock would put it later. He never did say judgment, and I wasn't sure if that was what he was going to say or not, but either way I got what he meant. Or, at the very least, I interpreted it the way I wanted to see it, so as not to damage my longing heart any further.

I'll admit it, I'd fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes. There was no denying it. After all these years together, of getting to know him, of knowing that he felt comfortable enough around me to open up and be himself after all the pain he'd gone through was just… endearing. I'd been around him for what felt like all my life, and I knew almost everything about him. I knew his ticks. I knew his tells. I could read him when no one else could.

So for him to say it was a lapse in… anything, hurt. And to take away that pain, I told myself that maybe he just needed time to work his emotions out. That was all, that was it. That's what needed to happen and when he was ready, he would tell me.

I sacrificed a lot of my emotions, being in a relationship with Sherlock. Because Sherlock Holmes wasn't an emotional person, still isn't. You might think that it was pointless, not worth it, stupid to sacrifice so much for a boy… but it was my decision, after all. And there would come a time when Sherlock would have to do the same. Maybe have to sounds too demanding, but I don't think he fully realised just how much I was there for him, or just how much he could trust me.

I trusted him with my life. Plain and simple. Because I loved him. I loved him dearly and deeply and there's no changing that.

But did Sherlock love me the same way? Did he merely love me as a sister? Did he love me at all? Or was I just an amazing girl for being so loyal to him? I'd find out eventually, with a little push here and a prod there. So he didn't completely and wholly open up to me on his own accord. So, what? The fact of the matter is that he finally did. He finally decided he could trust me truly and wholly, without a single doubt in his mind.

The fact of the matter is that, that moment would come too soon, too fast, and very hard.

The fact of the matter is that this was the calm before the storm, as the saying goes.


	9. Jump then Fall

I'd stood by his locker, every morning, waiting for him to come back. To return. I probably looked like an idiot or a fool, but I didn't care anymore. All I cared about was making sure that he was okay.

There was really no guarantee that he'd… ever come back, but my intuition was telling me otherwise. That he was coming back, someday soon.

So, I waited every morning at his locker until the bell rang. I waited for the whole month he was gone. Then, one day, after about ten minutes of waiting, leaning against his locker and looking down at my shoes, I lifted my head and there he was.

He had stopped in the middle of the hallway, probably upon seeing me there. He was a little paler, and gaunt looking. Thinner to. His eyes were a dull grey, his hair kind of just hung there. But he was there and the relief and happiness I felt at that moment trumped all other emotions that day. (The worry and panic and sadness were still there, though, don't get me wrong. They nagged at the back of my head, slowly eating me alive until I confronted and addressed them, not just with myself but with Sherlock as well. And he would eventually become healthier looking again, gain back the weigh he'd lost, still with that lean physique. His eyes would gain back some light and his hair would become fuller again. But that didn't really matter to me, because it was the change that had happened on the inside that concerned me the most.)

Tears formed in my eyes as I pushed away from his locker and slowly approached him. Those lack-lustre eyes followed me, but I couldn't quite read his expression. All I knew was it made my heart wrench and the feeling of melancholy washed over me.

I stopped a little ways away.

We looked at each other before I closed the gap between us, wrapping my arms around him, noticing just how thin he'd become and how fragile he felt to me, though I gripped him pretty tight. I rested my head on his chest and listened to his breathing—a little ragged—his heartbeat, and closed my eyes.

"Elizabeth—" Sherlock started quietly.

"You were gone." I said in a monotone voice, not moving away from him an inch or even opening my eyes. I could feel tears well up behind my eyelids and my voice thickened with emotion. "You were gone for a month. No note. No letter. No call. Not even one." I took a deep breath, blinking the tears from my eyes and unconsciously holding him just a little tighter, holding him just a little closer. "I was so worried about you."

"…I'm sorry." I heard Sherlock murmur before I felt his slim arms come around me, one around me waist, the other around my shoulders.

That was probably the last time I saw the Sherlock I knew for a long, long time.

That year, something happened. Something bad happened and it's what changed Sherlock forever. It's partly what changed Sherlock into the man he is today: Cold, seemingly unfeeling, blunt and straightforward, a genius who didn't know how to interact with people socially. I would find out later in the same year just what had happened, but from the time he came back to school to then, I was clueless and the Holmes family seemed to have closed up and become less social then before. Significantly less. The change was drastic and scared me, quite a bit, but Sherlock was my friend and whether or not he knew or cared or liked it, I was going to be there for him and make sure that he knew I was always going to be there for him.

It was a hard, long, rough year. Sherlock had done his vanishing act near the tail-end of summer holiday. We hadn't spoken the very last week before school had started and when I called or went to his house, there was never an answer. I thought maybe I'd see him at school, but no such luck. That month was probably the hardest, most terrifying month of my life. My parents did a good job in comforting me, but there was always that fear, always that worry. Sherlock wasn't the kind of person to leave without notice.

The first day he came back, I could see he was trying his best to be himself, but I had a feeling he didn't even know what himself meant anymore. This theory was confirmed the next day, when he came to school a completely different person.

There are a lot of memories from that year, but a few stand out in my mind….

I hesitantly poked my head into the Chem room and looked around. The teacher was in there, on her computer. She looked up at the sound of the door and smiled before going back to her computer. I stepped in, biting my lip and let the door swing shut. Heart pounding, I took a few small footsteps into the room, automatically looking toward the back, where the students did their labs and such.

Sherlock was sitting at one of the tables, microscope out in front of him, a petri dish underneath the lens. There were two beakers with unknown substances in them. One of them was on a Bunsen burner, on a low boil. He wasn't wearing his safety glasses, which I thought was odd and that the teacher would get after him for, but then again, I had no idea what he was doing and whether or not it was dangerous. Though, in Chemistry, you could never be too cautious.

Anyway, I slowly made my way back there, pulling up a stool and sitting across from him.

Sherlock didn't even look up. Didn't even acknowledge me. I sat there for a moment or two, trying to get the courage to say something to him and when I did, when I went to open my mouth he spoke first, "You can't eat back here." His tone was cold and to the point and it hurt, but I tried not to let it too much.

"I-I know." I stuttered, cursing myself silently. "I just… just wanted to see if you were… going to join me for lunch." I mumbled.

"Can't. I'm in the middle of an experiment, if you hadn't noticed." He looked away for a second to pick up his pen and write something down in his notebook before going back to the microscope.

"Of course I noticed," I snapped, but my voice was still timid. "But, you need to eat, Sherlock. It's unhealthy for you to go without eating."

"Thank you for the insight, but I can manage myself just fine without your help, Elizabeth. Now, please, I'm in the middle of something important."

"Sherlock," I persisted. "As your friend, I just really think that you should—"

"Elizabeth," Sherlock interrupted, looking up at me with cold blue eyes. "Please, stop interrupting me. You're being very distracting. I'm not hungry. And I think it'd be good for you to assume that I won't be joining you for lunch any time in the foreseeable future." With that said he looked back down into the microscope.

"Oh," I said softly, hoping my hurt came through. Not that he would've noticed anyway. Well, as I would learn through the year, he would notice, he noticed everything, but it wouldn't register in his conscious mind. It was either stored away somewhere, or thrown out. "Okay, then. I'll just… leave you to your… experiment." I slid off the stool and took a few steps toward the door. I turned back around and opened my mouth to try one more time, despite what he'd just told me, but he beat me to speaking.

"I'm sure." His tone wasn't annoyed any more. It was more monotoned and bored. Like he'd simply lost interest in talking with me within the span of the two minutes I'd taken to say "okay" and start to exit.

"Okay," I whispered. "Bye… Sherlock." I mumbled, turning around again and heading out. I don't think he responded to my goodbye.

I won't lie, I was hurt by this. Seriously hurt. He'd never spoken to me like that before. Like I was just another faceless classmate who occasionally bullied him or called him names. It was different and it pained me knowing that he'd basically rejected me, after so many years together. And the fact that I didn't understand why he'd become this way made it even worse. It wasn't like I hated him for turning into someone else almost entirely. It was just that, I wanted to understand, but he wasn't letting me. It hurt me more knowing that I was his friend, I'd promised to always be there for him, and he didn't trust me enough to confide in me, to tell me what was wrong.

Our relationship wasn't the same after that. And still, after all these years of thinking about it, talking about it with Sherlock (occasionally), I still couldn't figure out whether it had been for better or for worse. I suppose I didn't exactly have a choice in the matter, that's the way it felt anyway, but I'd made my decision and there was no going back. I didn't want to see the alternative future if I hadn't done what I did.

Like I said a bit ago, Sherlock came to trust me like I trusted him, he just needed a little… help, is all.

I turned around to get to class and almost ran into Sherlock. I let out a small yelp and jumped back, my heart pounding.

"Oh, Sherlock," I half gasped. "You scared me. Is… is there something you need? I have to get to class—"

"Where were you yesterday?" he asked, interrupting me.

"What?"

"Yesterday after school, I waited by your locker for thirty minutes, but you never showed."

"Oh, you mean for tutoring? I thought—well I thought you didn't want me to, you know, bother you…" I trailed off, my voice dying down as I lost my confidence.

"I'm perfectly fine tutoring you, Elizabeth. I simply didn't want you to interrupt me during my experiment. So, today after school, I'll meet you right here. You best be off to class now, or you'll be late." Without giving me a chance to say yes or no (though it wasn't really a question), he turned and walked off.

I sighed and trudged to class. This afternoon was going to be… interesting. I wasn't dreading it per se, but I wasn't looking forward to it either. It was hard handling this new Sherlock. He was so… emotionless most of the time, it scared me. His analytical side had become dominant and he seemed to lose his ability to understand emotion and the meaning behind those little talks we had whenever we had lunch or hung out.

I was glad to know he was still my friend… if you could even use that word anymore, but figuring out this new side of him was difficult. Figuring him out in the first place had been difficult enough, but now? It was beginning to feel downright impossible.

"Elizabeth," Sherlock's baritone voice broke me out of my thoughts. I jumped a little, still not used to his now very deep voice, though it'd been at least a year, maybe a bit less. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. But, I suppose, after spending so many years listening to him speak with a higher voice than now, one year wasn't going to negate that. I blinked and realise I'd been staring down at my work but had completely and utterly zoned out. I vaguely wondered how long I'd been out and wondered how much Sherlock had said in that time period before my eyes strayed to his fingertips gently resting against the back of my hand before looking up at him.

"Are you all right?" he asked in a quiet voice, and, for a moment, I could see concern in his eyes, on his face, and can hear it in his voice. My breath caught and tears formed in my eyes because I thought I'd never see this side of him again. I thought he'd completely gone and I'd missed my chance. But there it was, staring me right in the face, all I had to do was reach out and grab it—

"No," I found myself saying, wanting to break eye contact but forcing myself to keep his gaze. "No, no, I'm-I'm not all right." I could see him pull back a little as I said this, but only because I knew that he didn't know how to handle such complicated, emotional situations. Then and, especially, now. "We… need to talk." At this his walls slammed shut, his eyes going from a soft blueish-green to a cold, steel grey within seconds. He straightened up, pulling his hand away from mine. He knew exactly what I meant. But I'd gone this far, there was no turning back now.

"I need to go." Sherlock stated through a very controlled expression and tight lips. With that he quickly started packing up and I'm just barely able to comprehend all of what's happened before he stands and starts for the door. I knew that if I let him leave, this would be over, all of it and I couldn't let that happen. I pushed away from the desk, letting the math book and pen resting in my lap fall to the ground as I stood and nearly sprint to the door, getting there just in time to grab the handle before Sherlock can. He glared down at me, hand still outstretched for the handle.

"Elizabeth," he warned in a dark tone, his deep voice making it sound even more menacing. I swallowed hard but met his ice-cold stare and even had the nerve to slip myself between him and door, effectively getting him to drop his hand and take a step back. But his mouth became a thin line and he was glaring daggers down at me.

"I'm not going to let you leave this room until you tell me what's wrong." I said, my voice coming out much braver-sounding and steady than I felt on the inside.

There was a moment where his stare wasn't so cold or hard and he said, "Nothing's wrong—"

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock." I interrupted in a dangerously low voice of my own. His eyes became cold again.

"Elizabeth, let me leave." He said slowly, pronouncing every word carefully.

I looked at him with pleading eyes, wracking my brain for something to say to him to get him to stay, anything. But nothing was coming, my mind was blanking. Sherlock stepped toward me, reaching for the handle again. I desperately opened my mouth, but still nothing came out and Sherlock grasped the door handle, and then it hit me.

I put my hand over his, squeezing it tightly. I felt Sherlock's glare turn toward me again.

"Elizabeth—" he started, but I cut him off yet again.

"You… trust me… don't you?" I whispered, keeping my tear-filled eyes on the floor. I felt him jolt and he pulled back, away from me, from the door, and let the door handle go. I, however, kept hold of the door handle. I hadn't noticed it, but I was leaning up against the door, now, for support. My legs felt weak and I felt breathless, but I was going to go to make Sherlock talk to me. Show him he could trust me.

When he didn't say anything and it got the point that I wanted to scream to break the silence, I slowly lifted my head to meet his stricken gaze. His whole body was tense: his neck, his jaw, his hands were fisted at his side. It didn't look like he was breathing. But his face showed such agony and pain that is broke my heart.

Our eyes locked and it was like we were both transported back in time, to the day he played his violin for me, for my birthday. That day, he saw it, in my eyes, heard it, in my voice, that I was scared. I was unsure. But he asked that very same thing, "You trust me, don't you?"

"Don't you?" I snapped, pushing away from the door and taking a step toward him. He took a step back, but that agonized look stayed on his face. "Because you know—you know I trust you. I trust you with my life, Sherlock." I continued when he didn't answer, tears now flowing freely down my face. My voice shook and is thick as I go on, taking another step. "I'll wait. I'll wait for as long as it takes for you to open up to me fully. But that's my problem. That's just it! I've given you my trust, my loyalty, my… love. I'd give everything to you in a heartbeat, but you've only given me bits… a-and pieces. Half-stories and-and half-answers." My voice had rose and I took another step toward him, he doesn't move this time. I think I may have shocked him in paralysation when I told him I loved him. "But I'll take it. I'll always take it. I won't push for more like most. Because I know, I can see. I'm not blind. You've been hurt. And you've closed up to the outside world. You need time to heal. You need time to build trust. And even then, how do you know that that person isn't going to go and stab you in the back?" I paused and swallowed hard. "The answer is you just don't. You can never know. That's why you have to take the risk, make the jump." My voice lowered, became smaller, "I'm not saying that I would ever do that to you. You already know how I feel." I paused again and took another slow step forward. "You don't have to love me back, Sherlock. But I want you to trust me." I gave him a pained smile through my tears. "I want… you to know that I am and always will be here for you. I want you to take that jump because when you fall, I'll be there to catch you."

Silence as we gazed at each other. I couldn't read the emotions swirling in Sherlock's blue-green eyes as the silence stretched on and on and on and into eternity. We're standing only centimetres apart, but it feels like we're in different galaxies.

I saw Sherlock's chest rise and heard him suck in a shaky breath before letting it out slowly.

"Elizabeth—" he started, his voice soft and tired-sounding. His whole body, that which used to be tense, had deflated during my speech: His shoulders hunched, his arms hung limply at his sides, hands no longer fisted. It looked almost as if it was a struggle to simply keep standing.

"Do you?" I asked, interrupting him yet again, in a soft voice. "Do you trust me?" Another quick flashback, to the Chem room, with the flaming snowball.

He gazed at me for a long time after that. I could see the war that went on in his head as he fought to decide whether or not he was going to open up to me. But finally, he blinked and sighed before going over to sit back down. He wouldn't meet my eyes as I slowly sat down across from him and waited patiently.

He kept an arm on the table, to hold himself up. His head was bowed and his other hand was knotted in his hair. When he spoke it was a struggle, words were spat through gritted teeth, sometimes his hands would fist and he'd break off, taking a moment before continuing.

Drugs, he told me. Cocaine to be exact. He'd gotten into cocaine. The only explanation was that he was having some problems at home, but he wouldn't go into much detail. He'd disappeared because they'd carted him off to the best rehab facility money could buy. That had been an especially hard time for him. Not only that but when he came back, it wasn't worry on his family's faces he saw, it was anger and mistrust; it was disgust that he would turn to something so damaging to the body. Of course, they were worried he'd relapse, but that seemed to be the only worry or concern of theirs, and not worry for their son's mental wellbeing, what these expressions did to his psyche.

He was quite after he finished. And tense again. Both hands, the one on the table and the one in his hair, fisted. I carefully reached forward and gently touched the top of his hand on the table. He jerked away, but I waited a moment before putting my hand over his. He seemed to relax this second time, his hand opening a bit. I interlaced our fingers, and I saw him quickly wipe his eyes—which he probably didn't want me to see—before looking at our entwined hands and then looking up at me. His eyes were rimmed red and were a bit watery, but I pretended not to notice and instead gave him a small smile. His eyes filled with tear again. He bit his lip and quickly averted his gaze.

I slipped my hand from his for a quick moment to walk around the table and stand next to him, putting my arm around his shoulders and pulling him close to me, keeping my eyes trained on the wall parallel, because I knew how much he hated people seeing him cry. I felt him hesitantly rest his head against my shoulder. My other free hand came up to gently run my fingers through his hair and before I really knew what was happening, his hands had come up to grasp my arm like a lifeline. It was almost to the point of pain, but I let him hang on and would continue to do so for as long as he needed. Just as I let him have a private moment to just break down (silently, that is, he didn't make a single noise, if I hadn't known any better, I wouldn't have thought he was crying).


	10. Break

The dynamic of our relationship really changed after that. Not that it shouldn't. Sherlock took a big step forward when it came to opening up to people and trusting people. Well, person, I suppose I should say. Things were a little rocky for a few weeks after that, trying to get things back in order and work out where we stood in this little relationship of ours. Because I'd inadvertently admitted to him that I loved him. It was a profound love that, I think, surpassed titles, however, I do admit that part of this love consisted of romantic attraction toward him. And that's probably what made our relationship so rocky after that late afternoon.

I could tell he was wary of this. He was wary of a lot of kind of love. I mean, he'd spent practically our whole time together telling me that love was a chemical defect, something that got in the way of functioning. So to have this chemical defect affect me and be directed toward him was upsetting. It took a lot of discussion and a lot of promises on my part to convince him that he didn't need to love me romantically back. I'd still be his best friend and trusted confidant, no matter what.

Then things seemed to going okay. They quieted down and we slowly fell back into step with each other as well as our usual routine. The end of the year started to roll around and we had started to discuss universities and future plans, just as something to pass the time with, really. I knew Sherlock hated that kind of idle banter, but he'd do it for me once in a while. I think he indulged me more this year to make up for his absence and my palpable fear of losing touch with him when we went off to pursue careers and such.

Like I said the end of the year rolled around… but that's when things took a turn for the worst. I can remember the events that took place that day like it happened just moments ago. It's been ingrained into my memory and will probably stay there until the day I die. It was the tipping point for everything, for my life. It was like I'd been riding the rollercoaster up and now we'd finally reached the top, and were slowly coming forward, getting ready to plunge into unknown depths.

I was sitting in my afternoon class, taking notes during a lecture. One of the teacher's last lectures, for A-level examinations were coming up soon. This would be the last lecture he gave us. I don't remember the time, nor do I remember the exact day, but in the middle of class, another adult burst through the door. Her eyes were a bit frantic and her chest heaved like she'd just been running. It was alarming and my heart shot into my throat when she called my name.

"Elizabeth Hallows?" she asked, panting, hand holding the door open. It was because of her state, did I immediately stand up and make my way through the maze of desks and chairs to her, the pen I'd been holding still in my grip.

"What-what is it? What's wrong?" I asked as I came up to her. Behind me the class had fallen silent, the atmosphere thick as everyone waited with baited breath to hear what was going on and why it involved me.

"You're mother. She's… she's had an accident. Please, come with me." she replied in a low voice, making sure that only I would be able to hear her.

The pen dropped from my numb hand, echoing through the room before she turned and ran out, me hot on her heels. Something had happened to Mum? But… what kind of accident. A car accident? Or maybe she tripped and fell down a flight of stairs. Was she possibly attacked by someone? How badly hurt was she? Clearly they wouldn't be calling me in the middle of class if she wasn't badly hurt. So what had happened?

The main office was surprisingly calm when we got back to it. Nothing stirred. Phones rang in the background, papers were being filed or shuffled, there weren't any students waiting to be picked up by parents or somesuch.

It was quiet.

It was unnerving.

As soon as I entered, breathing just as heavily as the woman before me, I heard my name being called once again.

"Dad!" I exclaimed going up to him and wrapping my arms around his waist, his arms coming around me and squeezing me to him tightly. Some of my nerves calmed, being in his warm embrace and knowing that at least he was all right. I pulled away and looked up at him questioningly. "What's going on? I was only told Mum was in an accident—" I broke off seeing tears in my father's eyes, which were also rimmed red, like he'd been crying before this.

He put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a comforting smile, as best he could through his tears, anyway.

"Sweetie," he started, his voice shaking, "remember you baby sister we mentioned a few weeks ago?" My heart dropped. Had she had a miscarriage, is that what happened? But it wasn't like miscarriages were life-threatening. So why—

"Dad, I don't understand—"

"Your mother had a miscarriage a few days ago. She was so upset, she tried to—" He broke off unable to finish, tears streaming down his face. His whole body was shaking as he tried to keep his sobs to a minimum, seeing as we were in the middle of my school's office still.

I, however, didn't want to comprehend what was happening. My mind had put together what had happened today, but my heart was breaking at the mere thought that this was happening at all. At what my mom had done to herself. I couldn't bear to ask if she was still alive, I was afraid of the answer.

For a time there, I thought I finally knew what Lucifer was talking about in John Milton's _Paradise Lost_. The flames of hell burning his body, the glow of its violent red flames roasting his eyes, yet the suffocating darkness and the unrelenting cold that surrounded him at the same time. What was all consuming and constant, though, was the pain that I felt.

I stepped away from my father, letting his hands fall off my shoulders. He lifted his gaze to meet my own stricken one.

"Lizzy?" he asked, his breathing broke and ragged. Before I gave my body conscious command to, I was out the door, down the hall, and on the pavement. I vaguely remember my dad calling my name, but I didn't stop.

I ran back to our house. The lights were still on, like my dad had left in a rush when he got the news. I paused as I got through the front door, looking around, wondering what I was doing here, wondering why my body had brought me here. They'd certainly find me here. This was the first place they'd look and I didn't want them to find me. Not yet. I needed to be alone. I needed the quiet. I needing _think_. I grabbed a few things before I dashed out of the house, just barely managing to close the door before I was off running again.

From there, I just kept running and running. I didn't stop running when my lungs caught fire, I didn't stop running when my muscles screamed for oxygen; I just didn't stop running.

That was until…

* * *

 I slowly walked over to the tree specified by Sherlock's note, looking around the park. It was surprisingly sunny today. A breeze blew through the trees, making the leaves rustle. Everyone seemed to be out and about, trying to soak up the sun they got to see so little of. And it seemed a lot had come to this park. It wasn't too far from London. I'd come here when I was younger with my parents for strolls. I hadn't been here in ages, but this park held fond memories for me.

Anyhow, like I said, I was looking for Sherlock because he'd left me a note a day ago, but it was some kind of weird coded message and it had taken me right up until now to figure out this park was what he meant, and this specific tree—the only oak in the whole of the park—was where I was supposed to meet him at noon exactly.

I stood under the tree, looking around, feeling like an idiot, before I looked down at the note, made sure I decoded it correctly then looked at my watch. It was noon. So where was Sherlock?

"Look up." Came an all too familiar baritone from above me, as if he'd read my mind. My gaze went heavenward just in time to see Sherlock jump down from the branch he'd been sitting on. I had about a millisecond to process this and step out of the way as he landed next to me. This, however, caused me to lose my balance and I started to fall away from him with a very embarrassing squeak. But instead of hitting grass, I was suddenly being pulled toward him and fell into him instead, his scent washing over me.

A blush stained my cheeks and I quickly pulled away, making sure to not lose my balance.

"Sherlock," I exclaimed in greeting. I would've tried to hide my blushing face, but this was Sherlock Holmes, he was way too observant for his own good sometimes. There was no use. "I… I-I… I got your message." I stuttered, holding out the piece of paper to show him.

He smiled. "I knew you'd figure it out. I've been waiting for you." This made my face turn even redder, if that was possible.

"Well I hope you haven't been waiting for _too_ long…" I mumbled, looking down at my shoes. Then my head snapped up as indignation rushed through me. "Why make it so obscure and secret anyway?" I asked, holding up the paper again. "It took me so long to figure this out. I was up all night trying to decode this stupid message of yours."

"That's why I gave it to you a day in advance." Sherlock commented, his smile never fading.

I puffed. "Now you listen here, Mr William Sherlock Scott Holmes," I started. "You did _not_ just insult my intelligence!"

"I didn't, your intelligence is that of the average person, Miss Elizabeth Rosalie Hallows." he responded, smirking before adding a wink at the end.

I hated him sometimes. Well, I suppose I should say I hated me sometimes because I couldn't stay mad at him. I didn't know whether it was because I'd fallen head over heels in love with him or because I'd been used to him insulting my intelligence, subtly and then not-so-subtly as we grew older, all the time. It could've been both.

I took a deep breath, my cheeks still feeling a bit warm, and stood up straighter.

"What did you want to show me?" I asked in a calmer voice. Sherlock gave me one of his infuriating-but-cute half smiles before going back over to the tree and without a word started to climb up. I quickly followed and a few branches up, he stopped and propped himself on a branch, leaning back against the trunk, waiting for me to get to his height. When I did, I pulled myself up onto a branch opposite of his.

"Okay," I was getting a bit suspicious now, but kind of excited, because when it came to surprises, Sherlock never disappointed, whether it was showing me a cool chemistry trick or simply showing me something that he thought I'd like (though to him it was boring).

As it turns out, it was something he thought was boring, but I thought was sweet, and anyone else would think as a date. We had a picnic, in a tree. I pushed my feet against the branch Sherlock was sitting on, making a make-shift table with my legs. There was a sandwich for each of us, including bottles of water and bottles of juice.

In the middle of a comfortable silence, I couldn't help but ask, "Why'd you do this, Sherlock?" Because I knew how much mundane things basically killed him. He hated them, and that was putting it mildly. So, why he would endure such a thing as a picnic with me was puzzling to me.

Sherlock looked out across the park, his eyes distant and thoughtful as he slowly chewed. He was silent for a few more moments after he swallowed and then suddenly he turned to look at me, his startlingly grey eyes shocking me back to when we'd first met and I'd looked up from the newspaper he was reading to meet the same pair of intelligent grey eyes.

"You could say I'm… repaying a favour." he answered and leaving it at that. I had a feeling he was talking about the first time we met and I'd given him half my sandwich even though I hadn't even known his name at the time. It could have also been all the times I ever shared my lunch, but… that particular moment, the first time we met seemed more like what he was talking about.

"Thank you," I mumbled, looking down at my half-eaten sandwich.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, voice concerned. "You're crying. Are you hurt?"

My eyes widened and I quickly reached up to rub my tears away. "No, no, I'm fine." I gasped. "Just… just something in my eye." I sniffled and made sure there were no stray tears before I looked back at Sherlock and gave him a reassuring smile.

We finished our little lunch and settled into another comfortable silence. After the sandwiches, Sherlock pulled out two chocolate cupcakes with no frosting (I'd told him I don't know how long ago I hated frosting). Instead, he'd brought of a can of whipped cream and attempted to make a swirled pile of the stuff on top of the cupcakes.

It was as we were finishing and throwing our garbage into the plastic bag that Sherlock had brought everything in did I first hear it. It was soft and pitiful. So soft that I wasn't even sure if I'd heard it or it had just been my imagination.

"Did you hear that?" I asked quietly, looking over at Sherlock. He furrowed his eyebrows slightly and listened. Another little cry sounded. "I think it might be hurt!" I gasped, pushing away from the branch Sherlock was sitting on and slipping off of the one I was sitting on before making my way down the tree. My feet hit the ground and I heard the animal's soft wail coming from somewhere in the bushes near the tree we'd been sitting in. I stared toward them, straining my ears. Behind me I heard Sherlock land on the ground.

"Elizabeth—" he started but I cut him off by holding up a hand and "shh-ing" him as the noise sounded again, more to my right. I took a few steps right before kneeling down near the bushes and trying to see the dense greenery for what was making the noise. At first, all I could see were leaves and darkness, a branch here and there because they blended in so well with the darkness. Then, suddenly I noticed a spot of what looked like silver fur of some sort. It was odd because I couldn't think of any animal that had silver fur.

"Sherlock, come help me get it out." I said, looking at him over my shoulder.

"Elizabeth—" he tried again but I cut him off again.

"Just come help me…. Please. I think its hurt." I pleaded. Sherlock sighed heavily and rolled his eyes but came over to kneel next to me. Together we pushed the branches away and Sherlock held them back as I reached into the gap we'd made and pulled out the tiniest kitten you ever saw. It fit snuggly in both my hands. One of its paws looks swollen and its eyes were tightly shut. Now that it was fully in the light it looked more grey-blue than silver.

"It's a Russian Blue," Sherlock commented.

"Hm?"

"A Russian Blue cat," he clarified.

"I didn't know you knew cat breeds." Though, to be honest, I really should've known.

He smirked, his eyes never leaving the kitten in my hands. "They're one of the first breeds I learned. They're supposed to be intelligent."

* * *

 "Oh, Arthur," I sighed, scratching the place on the top of his head, right between his ears. I had been waiting for the tears to come, but they hadn't and I was wondering why. I was glad I hadn't broken down (yet), but it felt odd to not being crying. I mean, I was an emotional person, I cried for a lot of things that most people probably wouldn't, yet something like this happens and I hadn't even shed a tear.

Maybe it was because I'd become numb. After I'd ran and found the place, our little place, numbness slowly engulfed me. I felt listless, almost paralyzed.

I was sitting beneath the great oak where Sherlock had set up a picnic for the both of us on the uncharacteristically sunny day. Arthur was in my lap, nuzzling his face into mine, giving me little kisses with his wet nose. He wouldn't stop shifting in my lap, but I figured that was because he was picking up on the unrest in my mind.

Arthur, that was the name of the Russian Blue cat that we'd found in the bushes that day. We'd later come to find out that he'd only been two weeks old, was severely sick, nearly starved and had a sprained ankle. He wasn't expected to make it, but as soon as I heard that, Arthur became my personal responsibility and I slowly nursed him back to health.

Suddenly he paused in his shifting, his head popping up like a meerkat, eyes going wide, ears perked. With a meow he dashed off my lap.

"Arthur—!" I gasped, turning, ready to stand up and chase after him. I had him on a leash, but I hadn't had a good hold of it before he dashed off. However, when I looked up—for I hadn't even had the time to get off the ground—I realised I didn't need to worry about that.

"…Sherlock…" I said quietly as he walked forward, Arthur in his arms, and kneeled down next to me, gently putting Arthur back into my lap. Arthur was purring even louder now and meowing more than usual.

Sherlock smiled a bit.

"It's good to see you, too, Arthur." he said, scratching the cat behind his ears and under his chin. There was a moment of brief happiness—which I took to secure Arthur's leash around my wrist—before I could feel Sherlock's eyes on me. His hand dropped away from Arthur and I slowly lifted my gaze from the leash around my wrist to meet Sherlock's concerned blue eyes.

Our eyes locked and the dam broke. All the pain that the numbness had been keeping it at bay hit me like an anvil but surrounded me and choked me like the fog of London. My eyes filled with tears that blurred my vision and I let out a harsh sob. I looked away from Sherlock, then, bringing my hands up to grab fistfuls of my hair, sobbing in the crooks of my elbows, concealing my face. I felt Arthur's fur brush against my arms and heard him meowing, worried about me, but I couldn't pry my arms away from my face. I wanted the earth to just swallow me up and make me disappear.

I wanted this gut-wrenching, heart-breaking, head-splitting pain to go away.

The sensation of being enveloped by something other than the poisoned fog made me falter in my sobs and I peeked out from my arms to see that Sherlock had taken hold of me and set me in his lap. I sniffled, another sob escaping my lips as I looked up at him.

"Sherlock…?" I asked breathless. He reached up with his free hand (for his other arm was holding me to his chest—to wipe some of my tears away with his thumb before leaning forward and kissing my forehead.

"I'm here for you," he promised quietly, tightening his hold on me. I looked back down, holding a worried Arthur to me, his purring and soft fur comforting, as well as Sherlock's arms around me and the warmth coming from his body, as more tears streamed down my face and I continued to sob.

* * *

**Just in case of confusion, that bit in the middle there is a flashback.**


	11. Breakaway

I would later learn that my mom had fallen into a deep depression after having miscarried her baby. It was such a harsh, deep depression that she wanted to end her life. She'd swallowed a bottle of pills. Had my dad not come home when he did, she'd most definitely be dead. Her stomach was pumped and she remained in the hospital for that night. When she awoke the next day, a psychiatrist was called in to do a psych evaluation. She was still pretty depressed so my dad put her into mental hospital. She was also on suicide watch.

It was hard on both of us. Especially when my dad told me that he really needed time alone to think about all that was happening. By this he meant the opposite, really, because he threw himself into his work. (He worked in a cubicle in an office building for a large company.) He'd come home around midnight and leave before I woke up, half-waking me up to on both occasions to kiss my forehead and tell me he loved me.

That is, if I was even asleep. Some nights were sleepless. I'd toss and turn in bed, my mind drowning in what'd happened. I felt like my world was falling apart. I felt like there'd been a wedge driven between me and my dad and it was slowly driving us further and further apart. It was a terrible feeling and I just wanted it to go away. Sometimes I'd curl into a ball in my blankets on my bed, trying to rid myself of the aches of my body and mind and heart. It usually worked for a few hours.

I was excused for school for a few days. The headmaster of our school said I could skip my A-level exams if I wanted, but I'd have to make them up some time later, probably during the summer if I wanted to continue on into Year 13 this coming fall. I told him I'd think about it, but in reality I was planning on taking my exams. Because, like my father, I wanted to take my mind off what was happening as much as possible. The A-level exams were a great way to do this. However, I did use those few days off of school. I didn't think I could bear going into the building and having all those people staring at me with pity and sadness. It would make what had happened too real and I didn't think I was ready to accept that just yet.

I was in deep denial, for the most part. I just didn't want to solidify it in any way, shape, or form. Right now, I was treating it like a temporary thing that would blow over and then everything would go back to what it was before. Again, deep denial.

Sherlock was really helpful and understanding through this. He came over to my house every day after school to help me study. He never mentioned what had happened or asked about my dad unless I brought it up (which I really didn't, for obvious reasons). The one time he did bring it up it was because Serena had asked about me and how I was doing, and that was fine. Serena had been a good friend and still was.

Other than that, though, Sherlock was "business as usual", but I could feel he was also there for me if needed. But I was grateful that he wasn't looking at me with sad eyes or saying "sorry" like I knew the kids at the school would do if I went back.

I think I did get a little sick that first day off of school. I had a small headache constantly and my body ached. I felt lethargic and when I moved the world would sometimes spin. The symptoms would fluctuate like the amplitude of a wave: Sometimes the symptoms would be so severe I could barely move and sometimes they'd be almost non-existent. Thankfully they were most severe when Sherlock wasn't there. I didn't want him worrying too much. Thanks to a psychology class I'd taken to see if I would like it, I knew that this sickness was probably totally and completely in my head because of what happened with my mom. There was a possibility that it was actual sickness, but because I didn't have the distinctive symptoms of a head cold, stomach bug, or chest cold that's what I figure it was.

I just needed to figure out a way to get over it before the exams came. I was going to take them, and it didn't matter if I could barely move, I was going to find a way to get to the school.

Having my father gone from the house almost all the time was hard, and there came a point in time where we'd run out of food. I know it probably wasn't good parenting, but I was a legal adult now, so it's not like it he _had_ to take care of me anymore. Though I wasn't looking forward to going out to Tesco's for food (and I was only grabbing a can of soup or something, mind you, because I feeling particularly crummy today), I would just suffer through it because I was hungry.

I waited until late afternoon, almost evening, because I knew that's when my symptoms usually lessened before I donned a light jacket and left the house. My headache spiked a little when I stepped outside, however, because of how bright it was. And it wasn't because of the sun, it was because the clouds were being annoying reflective. Nonetheless, I locked the door and started making my way to Tesco's on foot. Like the school, it wasn't too far away (thankfully).

It didn't take me long to get in and grab a can of soup, but on my way out my symptoms seemed to peak and suddenly my headache became a migraine and my body just wanted to collapse on the spot. I gritted my teeth as yellow lights danced behind my eyes and my head felt like it was about to explode. The noise, the lights, the people, it was all becoming way too much. I somehow managed my way into an empty aisle before I slid down to the floor, leaning against the shelves, hugging my knees to my chest and resting my head on my knees, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to block everything out.

This was just great. I was simply trying to get some food. Was that too much to ask? I mean, really?

I don't know how long I sat there, but suddenly through the fog and haze I heard my name being called distantly. It happened a few times before I worked up the energy to lift my head and carefully open my eyes. My headache had lessened some, but it was still pretty bad. The lights blinded me for a moment, my headache spiking, before my eyes adjusted—for the most part. Kneeling in front of me was a blurry figure that looked like Sherlock, but I wasn't too sure. This person continued to call my name and now it was starting to sound like I'd been submerged in water.

I groaned in pain, my hand coming up to face as I squeezed my eyes shut. I felt a touch and suddenly I came up from the surface of the water. With I gasp I jerked back, lifting my head. The blurriness snapped into place and my vision became clear. The noises were just as loud, the lights just as bright, my headache still throbbing but on the backburner for now.

It was definitely Sherlock kneeling in front of me and he looked really concerned. I vaguely wondered how long he'd been calling my name.

"Elizabeth?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. There was a basket sitting beside him already filled with a few items.

I let out a heavy sigh. "Hi, Sherlock," I said. He let out a breath too, his shoulders sagging a little.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" Sherlock asked. He knew about my sickness. I hadn't told him, he'd deduced it. He was actually becoming quite good at it.

I held up my can of soup. "Food," I mumbled, my hand dropping as soon as the word was out of my mouth.

"Where's your father?" he asked warily.

I looked down at the can still in my hand. "Not home." I said simply.

There was a moment of awkward silence before Sherlock let out a small sigh.

"Come on, let's get you home," he said, grabbing the can in throwing it into his basket. He stood, then, taking the basket with him and helped me up, before putting an arm around my waist, probably feeling how weak I was. I could barely stand alone, my knees were weak, and my body still ached. I leaned into him, his sweet scent engulfing me.

It was kind of blur to me what happened after that, but I do remember Sherlock paying for the things he'd had in his basket, including my soup, and then we were suddenly in my house, in the dining room. I was sitting at the table with a blanket wrapped around my shoulders and a moment later Sherlock came into the room with my bowl of soup. He placed it in front of me and sat down across from me. I could feel his gaze resting on me, but I stared down at the soup as if its depths held the answers to the universe.

"Elizabeth—" Sherlock started, but I cut him off.

"Thank you," I said quietly, finally looking up at him. Sherlock took in a deep breath in and let it slowly, through his mouth, not taking his eyes off of me. There was a lot of emotions swirling in those blue-green depths, but I was too tired to dissect them and determine what they were. Instead, I looked down at my soup and slowly started to eat. Sherlock stayed sitting the entire time, completely silent. I could feel his eyes on me, and I could practically hear him trying to decide on whether or not to say what he was going to say before I thanked him.

"Are you sure you want to take your exams?" Sherlock finally asked as I pushed the bowl away from me. I was feeling a big queasy and I wasn't sure if it was because I'd eaten after not eating all day, or because of my "sickness."

"I'm sure," I muttered, folding my arms on the table and resting my head down on them. "I need…" I trailed off, trying to think about what I needed. My eyes teared up out of the blue and I turned my head so that my face was now buried in my arms. I was trying not to break down and sob, because I'd been doing so well. I hadn't broken down since the day I found out. But it seemed the dam had broken and I couldn't stop the flow of tears or the sobs.

"Elizabeth—!" Sherlock exclaimed his voice slightly choked. Suddenly I felt his hand on my shoulder. "I-I… I didn't mean to—I was only asking—I'm… I'm sorry."

I smiled at his attempts to apologise. For some reason I found it kind of funny. Tears still pouring down my face, I lifted my head and looked over at him, still smiling. A small laugh managed its way out of my mouth.

"It's okay, Sherlock. I understand. I just…" I bit my lip, my smile fading as the sadness came back. "Why me? Why now?" My sobs grew worse and I buried my face in my hands, weeping so hard my shoulders shook. Without a word, I felt Sherlock's arms envelope me. He picked me up, blanket and all, carefully before sitting down where I'd just been and setting me in his lap, holding me to his chest.

I don't know how long we sat like that. I don't know how long he held me. But, eventually, my sobs became less and less, quieting until the only sound that could be heard was the sound of our breathing. I pressed my ear up to his chest, listening to his breathing, his steady, strong, comforting heartbeat. At some point, it started to make me drowsy and before I knew it, I'd fallen asleep.

I passed my A-levels with flying colours, but had a suspicious feeling my teachers had taken pity on me and given me good marks. (This was later confirmed when Sherlock went over my exams. I still passed, but they had raised my score a bit.) The year ended like that, and then I had nothing to occupy my time. It was still hard, and hard at first having nothing to keep my mind busy, but things slowly started to get better.

My dad seemed to get home earlier, little by little, as the weeks passed and he didn't look so sad anymore. Which was good. I mean, we were both still hurting inside, but we were slowly coping with the pain. And we were finally coping together. Sherlock was there for me through summer holiday as well. It was nice, and I appreciated it immensely. I don't think he quite understood just how much him being there meant to me, but I was grateful all the same and expressed that to him whenever I could (making sure to say it just below his tolerance level).

Our last year of secondary school rolled around, and then Sherlock and I would be off to University. I guess now is a good time as any to tell you the subjects I'd chosen for A-level were art and design, English literature and English language. (Sherlock was taking Biology, Chemistry and Physics, just if you wanted to know.) I really loved art, especially drawing with the good old pencil and paper (sometimes pen), but throughout the years that I'd developed my skills I had started to step outside of my little box and explore a little more with Photoshop, photography, and graphic design. I was taking English Lit and Language as a back-up, in case I couldn't get a job in art and design right away.

Anyway, as I was saying, our last year of secondary. It was scary for me. I was so used to home life that it never occurred to me when I began university I'd be away from my dad for a much, much longer period of time. I mean, everyone was excited to have more freedom and independence, but after what happened with mum, we grew close and I was deathly afraid of losing my dad too.

Which was probably my biggest problem at the time. It got me into quite a bit of trouble.

The Upper Sixth year had just began and even though it had just began, and I wouldn't be heading off to Uni for a few months, the worries I mentioned above—especially the ones with my dad—still piled up in the most unpleasant way. Things had seemed to settle down, especially after what happened with my mum, who was still in the hospital. No longer on suicide watch, but she seemed to have died inside. I'd found the courage to visit her once during summer holiday and her eyes were just… dead, blank, and oh-so empty. I couldn't stomach another trip. I still don't think I could.

As I was saying, though, I had thought things had calmed down a bit. That would change one day when I came home—Sherlock was with me, still tutoring, but now teaching me to make my own "mind palace"—to find my dad being held by knife point. And it wasn't some pocket knife, or a kitchen knife, it was a large six inch, give or take, knife.

Sherlock and I had just walked from school. I pulled out my key as we approached the front door but before I could even lift my hand, Sherlock's arm shot out, stopping me in my tracks. I looked up at him questioningly and started to say his name, but he quieted me by holding a finger to his lips, his eyes surveying the door. For what I wasn't sure, until they stopped at the handle. I instantly followed his line of sight. It wasn't obvious at first and I squinted a little as my eyes adjusted, but that's when I saw what looked to be some sort of damage to the doorframe that hadn't been there before.

My heart jumped in my chest and started beating double time. I didn't think as I roughly pushed Sherlock aside and grabbed the door handle, turned the knob and pushed the door open. Sherlock had grabbed my other arm to stop me, and I think he might've said my name in warning, but all I could think about was my dad. He was in some kind of danger and I needed to help him. I wasn't really thinking. I'd never been in situations like this before. I wasn't used to them and I certainly had never been trained to keep calm. Add that to the fact that I felt my dad was all I had left of my family and you could say that I panicked. (This in no way means I didn't consider Sherlock a part of my family now, however, the bond we shared felt slightly different than that of a family member or even a friend. It was as powerful as those bonds, but couldn't exactly be categorised, if that makes any sense.)

I pulled out of Sherlock's grasp and stepped inside to see, as I said before, my dad being held at knife point in the small foyer of our small house. I heard Sherlock step inside as well, but he grabbed hold of my arm again.

"Elizabeth," he said quietly, in a warning tone, in my ear, "we need to go." As he was saying this to me the perpetrator, upon hearing me enter, turned a little to see what was going on. He still pointed the knife at my dad and he made sure that he positioned himself so that he could see all of us. His short brown hair was messy, his green eyes were as wide as can be, and he looked in his early twenties. What he was doing here, though, I wasn't quite sure.

Sherlock tugged my arm but I resisted. I couldn't just leave my dad here. Not with this man threatening his life. I _couldn't_.

There was a moment of tense silence, no one dared move. I was barely breathing. The man with the knife was breathing fast and heavily like he was afraid, but his hands weren't shaking which I found odd and slightly contradictory.

The tension was shattered when my dad looked over at Sherlock and I, but met eyes with Sherlock's and yelled, "Get her out of here!" What happened next was a bit a blur and happened basically simultaneously. The adrenaline pumping through my veins made things slow in perspective and I saw my dad tense after he shouted like he was going to attack the man with the knife. Sherlock, who still had a hold on my arm, started pulling me toward the door. And the man, upon hearing my dad's shout, faced him again and pulled the arm with the knife back before bringing it forward.

As soon as I saw this my body acted without conscious command. I jerked out of Sherlock's grasp and ran toward both the attacker and my dad. Behind me I vaguely remember Sherlock calling my name, but I barrelled forward, knocking my dad out of the way just as the knife came forward. The pain was immediate and fierce. It was cold, but burned at the same time. Searing pain seemed to explode from my right side, just below my ribcage. But I couldn't cry out or scream. I actually seemed stunned at what had just happened.

I met the man's eyes for what seemed like ages. Those green orbs were as wide as could be and the man was slack jawed. I'm not sure if it was because he'd hit me instead of his intended target or because of he felt… guilty, maybe? But he jerked away from me, releasing the knife from his hand and back up a few steps before my dad had tackled him to the ground. I was still in some kind of shock, because I wasn't screaming in pain and I hadn't fallen to the ground, yet.

My vision filled with big black spots, stars danced across my vision and I stumble back a little. The sound seemed to have left the world, for all I could hear was the ringing in my ears. I looked down at the knife still in me. There had been so much momentum that the blade had gone all the way to hilt—the knife slightly angled upward—into my body. Seeing as it was six inches, the bloody tip was probably sticking out of my back.

I started to reach up to grab the knife, to pull it out, but before I could do so, another hand found mine. I looked up to Sherlock, his own eyes wide and stricken. He was paler than usual and he was saying something, but I couldn't hear him.

His touch seemed to have zapped me back down to earth because suddenly I could hear again. I could hear his voice. The pain was slowly consuming me but still nothing came out. I felt my knees give out and I started to fall backward. I reached up grabbing the front of Sherlock's button down. At the same time I felt Sherlock's arm grasp my upper forearms to hold me up.

"…Sherlock…?" I asked in a whisper right before a coughed a little, feeling a warm substance dribble down my chin. I think that's when it really hit me. "Sherlock," I gasped, tears starting to stream down my face, my grip tightening on the front of his shirt. "Sherlock, don't—don't let me die. I don't want to die. Please, Sherlock, don't let me die." I coughed again and more blood came up, but I swallowed it down, the taste making my stomach churn.

He seemed to have frozen when I started pleading, but he snapped out of it quickly. He then shifted, slowly lowering me to my knees and kneeling beside me, keeping one arm around my shoulders, holding me tightly to his chest. Through my blurring and black-spotted vision I saw him holding his mobile in his free hand, I'm assuming phoning an ambulance.

"I'm not going to let that happen, Elizabeth." Sherlock promised as he held his mobile up to his ear, his grip tightening on me. I reached up to put my hand over the hand on my arm as I continued to cry, more blood dribbling down my chin. My vision was become severely impaired and the pain seemed to never reach its peak. I still found I couldn't scream, though. I must've blacked out when Sherlock was talking on the phone but jolted back into consciousness when his deep baritone was shouting for my dad.

"Mr Hallows," he yelled (I would later find out this was because my dad had been beating in the man who'd stabbed me). "Your daughter needs you. _Now_." There was a moment of silence before the smell of soap turned into aftershave and I felt a different pair of arms around me—but had the mind to reach out and take Sherlock's hand into mine.

"Daddy," I murmured, half-conscious. I felt the arms tighten around me.

"I'm here, sweetie. Daddy's got you," he said in a shaking voice.

"I'm… so tired." I mumbled, my eyes drooping, the waves lapping over me.

"No," both of them shouted. My dad saying, "Don't go to sleep, sweetheart." and Sherlock saying, "Don't go to sleep, Elizabeth." But I could feel it was already too late. The waves were warm and comfortable. The pain slowly ebbed away as the tide did, gently pulling me out to sea.


	12. Long Live

My senses came back to me one at a time. The first thing I heard was the beeping of what I assumed to be the heart rate monitor. Second, I felt someone else's hand in mine. I could tell from the size, the warmth, and the familiar feel of having held this hand basically my hold childhood life, it was my dad's hand. My tactile sense slowly started to flood through my body, starting at my hands and feet and slowly making its way up. When it hit where I'd been stabbed a small sharp pain hit me as well. My mouth didn't seem to be working just yet so noise came from me, but the hand in my dad's involuntarily twitched. When it hit my chest, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my ribs and I could take in a full breath, and when it finally got to my head, I slowly opened my eyes. The brightness of the lights were too much at first and I had to close them again, and I had to open them slower to give my eyes time to adjust. When they finally did, I blinked hard a few times to clear my vision.

My eyes wandered around the white, sterilized room for a moment before going to my right and met my dad's dark green eyes. In the shadow, they looked almost forest green, but in bright light, they looked jade green. (I'd somehow luckily managed to inherit them.) The moment I looked at him tears burst from those forest green eyes and his grip on my hand tightened.

The whole weight of the situation hit me all at once and I found myself bursting into tears, too.

"Daddy," I sobbed, my other free arm slightly lifting, reaching for him. He stood up and engulfed me in a hug, but making sure to not lift me too far off the bed. It still hurt, I was sore and I could feel my stitches tug at my skin, but it wasn't anything a little morphine couldn't fix. I wrapped my arms around his broad shoulder, holding onto him as tightly as I could.

"Daddy, I'm sorry." I sobbed as my dad pulled back, gently resting me back on the bed, which was inclined slightly. "I-I just… I couldn't lose you too. And I was so scared—"

"Shh, shh, sweetie," my dad cooed, sitting back down and using his free hand to stroke my hair. "It's okay. I understand. Just… just promise me you won't do that again." His voice became a whisper. "You had me so worried. You're my baby girl. I can't lose you."

I smiled through my tears, my lower lip trembling.

"I promise," I whispered. He smiled back, his eyes crinkling at the corners. We then started to wipe our tears away, still smiling. We were both alive and we both still had each other. It was a wonderful feeling. Especially… after being so closet to death. And that episode with my mother.

"So," I began hesitantly. "What's the damage?"

My dad took my hand again and took a deep, shaky breath. "You were in surgery for several hours. And then you slept for a couple days. The… uh—" He cleared his throat before continuing, his voice a hoarse rasp. "The knife got your lower right lung and nicked two of your ribs. It was looking pretty bad for a little while there." He tightened his grip on my hand. "But you're okay now. You just have to take it easy for a while, make sure you don't rip your stitches and let your body do the rest. And it's okay to use the morphine drip to ease the pain."

I smiled and nodded. "I know." I whispered, my eyes drooping a wave a tiredness sweeping over me suddenly.

My dad reached up and brushed some of my hair back before kissing my forehead.

"I love you," he whispered, sitting back down.

"Love you, too." I mumbled before my drowsiness overwhelmed me and I drifted off into unconsciousness.

When I woke up again, my dad was sitting where I'd last seen him but there were two new people in the room. Well, I suppose "new" was a relative term because I knew them and I smiled as soon as my eyes fell on them.

"Serena, Sherlock," I greeted softly, still feeling a little drowsy. Serena was standing near the end of the bed with a giant stuffed panda bear in her arms. She looked relieved. Relieved, though tired, to see me. My dad pushed his chair back a little to allow for room for her to come forward. She dropped the panda on the floor near the bed as I carefully sat up straighter than the bed was allowing me to hug her.

"I was so worried about you when I heard what happened," she told me as we pulled away, her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, I'm just so glad to hear that you're okay. What a scary ordeal." She took my hand in both of hers and squeezed tightly. "You've already gone through so much and now this! I'm just so glad that you're all right. So glad to see you awake. The _whole_ school is so worried about you, too. They'll be glad to hear you're awake."

I grimaced slightly. "The whole school?" I asked sceptically.

Serena tittered a laugh. "You're cute. You may not be 'popular' but you're so nice and kind to everyone. They all care about you."

I didn't think that was quite true, but I smiled anyway. "Thanks for visiting me. And you really didn't have to bring that bear. I mean, I'm fine—"

"It was no trouble at all. Really, I wanted you to have it. Besides, you're dad told me they're keeping you for a tiny bit longer. You're going to need someone to keep you company." She leaned down and picked up the panda bear, setting him in my lap. "Besides, he's so cute and fuzzy and soft!" She exclaimed, petting the stuffed animal.

"Serena, you're suggesting I talk to inanimate objects." I objected, though I did reach up and feel the bear. She was right about the soft, fuzziness. She lifted an eyebrow at my comment and I blushed. "Okay, that was one time. I was bored." I muttered.

"Yeah, a-huh, sure. You keep telling yourself that, sweetie." Serena responded sarcastically. I opened my mouth to respond but she stood up. "Well, I have to get going. I'm still technically on the job." She made a guilty-is-charged face before winking at me. "Toodles!" She gave me a finger wave before saying goodbye to my dad and Sherlock and then exiting. She was hoping to become a pathologist in the future and had just gotten work placement at Barts hospital. I would've told her she didn't need to come visit me while she was working if I'd known she was still "on duty." But with her already out the door, it was pointless.

I moved the bear onto the table next to my hospital bed (that also held a glass of water), so I could see Sherlock better. He was standing near the door, holding a small bouquet of yellow roses and large, white daisies. Dad moved his chair back to my bedside as Sherlock walked around to my left and sat in the chair that was over there.

"I… brought these for you." he said holding them for me to take.

I smiled, reaching for them. "They're beautiful, Sherlock. Thank you." Daises were also my favourite flower. The yellow roses added nice, bright accents, and I was beyond happy that he remembered. It wasn't like I didn't think he would, it just seemed to me like somewhat useless information compared to the things he could be remembering considering how he'd wanted to become a consulting detective (he'd once told me when we had one of our conversations about future careers).

"It wasn't my idea. I didn't actually think to bring anything. Serena told me that's how these things worked." His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "She said it was… customary or somesuch."

I rolled my eyes but still smiled. That was why I loved Sherlock.

"It's still sweet," I assured him, setting the flowers in the lap of the panda bear. It got quiet for a moment and I looked down at the hands in my lap as I mumbled, "I haven't gotten to thank you yet for… being there."

"I don't understand," Sherlock said.

I looked up at him. "Well…" I stuttered. "I think that—" I broke off thinking about how I was going to word this. "Well, I think that… if-if you, you know… _hadn't_ been there—"

"I think what my daughter is trying to say is thank you," my dad finally interjected, leaning forward a little, while taking my hand into his. I blushed and looked back down at my lap.

"I still don't understand," Sherlock finally said. "I didn't _do_ anything—"

"You kept calm when I couldn't," my dad stated. "You were there for Lizzy in those critical moments. You had the knowledge to not remove the knife when anyone else who didn't know would've."

I peeked over at Sherlock through a thin veil of hair. He looked… stunned, to be honest. I mean, I know I've said this infinite times over, but he was good at hiding his emotions. But, right at this moment he looked speechless. I wasn't sure why, though.

"And," my dad continued. "If you've ever thought about it, you have my permission," he paused, "to marry my daughter."

I ripped my hand from my father's as blood rushed up to my face and I gasped.

"Dad!" I exclaimed, glaring at him, mortified. He looked sheepish and shrugged, holding up his hands in surrender.

"What, it's true." His eyes flickered over to Sherlock. "He's a keeper." He looked back at me.

I fell back onto the inclined bed, covering my beet red face with my hands, exclaiming, "Daddy!"

"With all due respect, Mr Hallows," Sherlock began quietly. I splayed my fingers and looked at him through them. Sherlock's eyes flickered over to meet mine. He held up his hand and I slowly lowered one of my hands and took his, I also sat up again. He then looked back at my dad as I lowered my other hand from my cooling face. "I don't think it's like that between us." He squeezed my hand gently and gave me a sidelong glance. I smiled before looking over at my dad.

He shrugged and held his hands up slightly again, shrugging. "I'm just saying, if you ever do in the future, you have my blessing."

I felt my cheeks burn again, but not as bad this time.

"Dad," I sighed as he took my other hand. "Honestly."

"I'm just saying," he reiterated. "Can't blame me for wanting the best for my baby."

I stuck my tongue out at him and laughed when he stuck his tongue out at me back. I then sighed and looked between the two of them.

"My men," I said, squeezing their hands.

When Serena had said the hospital wanted to hold me a tiny bit longer, she meant two days. It wasn't bad, but it was probably the longest two days of my life. I mean, I felt fine other than being a little sore. And I knew that I would be taking it easy so that my body had a chance to heal. I wasn't _that_ stupid, jeez. I mean, two days is nothing compared to how much longer I might've had to stay, but I'd already missed around two days of school sleeping, I really didn't want to miss more. This was my last year for secondary school. I was excited to finally go to University.

So, yes, two days is not bad, I admit it. However, it was hard to just sit around for hours on end. Thankfully, my dad brought me my sketchbook and pencils (and such) so I could entertain myself during those long hours. Sherlock came over for two hours after classes were out to give my homework and help me with my "mind palace." Dad would come and visit after work. I don't think I saw Serena after that first visit because she was so busy and caught up with her duties at Barts.

Officers had come in as soon as they heard I was awake to ask me questions and get my statement. The questioning was fairly quick and went relatively smooth, that was, of course, until they'd told me that the guy had fled before officers had arrived at my house. So he was still on the loose and they had no idea what they wanted with my dad (I found this slightly disturbing but more surprising than anything else considering how much my dad had hit the man; I feel like he would've shown up at a hospital through the two days I'd been out). They'd already asked my dad about what the man looked like, but he'd been in too much of a rage to really see.

The next morning the same officers came back with a sketch artist so that they could at least release a sketch for the public. I wouldn't be relived in the slightest until I knew that man was caught and in a cell, where he wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else, though.

They caught the man a few days after I was released, and life moved on. The rest of the year passed by fairly quickly and without any more incidents like getting stabbed, thankfully. I was really tired of all this _stuff_ happening and was grateful for the "boring," as Sherlock put it.

These memories aren't big on the development of my and Sherlock's relationship, but it was starting to become so much more than just some simple relationship now that we were older and moving on to University and soon out into the world. I'm not talking romantically in any way—I was starting to realise that Sherlock just wasn't that type of person that concerned himself with the romantic and/or sexual side of love—I'm talking in a way that friendships develop. They become intricate and complicated, but beautiful too. And I felt that's what our relationship was: Intricate and complicated, but beautiful.

This wasn't the end, either. Far from it. Because our lives were just beginning, and we were going to hit so much more rough patches and hard times, but the great thing about those was that, if we could work through them, we learned, grew, and changed. That's what makes relationships so beautiful, in my mind—how ever-changing and ever-evolving they are.

Especially mine and Sherlock's.


	13. Brand New Day

The goodbye was a bit hard on both of us. I showed it more than Sherlock, but I could tell that this was effecting him. I was sad that I would no longer see him every day, but knew that this was not a permanent goodbye. Not at all. I think Sherlock was a little afraid that we might lose touch or drift apart, but I wasn't going to let that happen and I made sure that he knew it. He never told me, but because of his past and the things I'd learned about him throughout my years of knowing him, I felt an insecurity about him whenever we talked about University. I think it was because of this I'd made it a personal goal to make sure not to lose touch with him.

We kept in touch by sending letters on the first of every month. Even though it wasn't much they still seemed and felt personal, because his were always at least a few pages long (as were mine), catching me up on all that'd happened since the last letter. I didn't mind it. I actually grew quite fond of this type of communication with him. On my birthday he'd send me a charm for a charm bracelet I'd gotten from my dad as a graduation/going away present. (I'd send him an art piece, just if you wanted to know.)

It was interesting how two years could just come and go in the blink of an eye….

I had to stop outside of the large, looming university of Cambridge. It was almost overwhelming, but very beautiful. Today it looked friendlier than if the skies had been overcast, but spring was in the air and today was a fairly sunny day. The air had a small nip to it, though and when the breeze blew through, I found myself shivering. Nonetheless, it was better than the rain I'd gotten so used to in London, _and_ I was too excited to really care that it was a bit chilly outside.

Taking a deep breath I entered and went in search of Sherlock's dorm. He'd told me where in one of the many letters we'd exchanged. It took me longer than I anticipated because I got lost twice before actually understanding the directions another person there had given me. The door was slightly ajar when I came up to it. Biting my lip, feeling a little nervous (I hadn't actually told him I was visiting today; it was supposed to be a surprise), I pushed it slightly open a bit more and stepped into the doorway.

There was another man standing inside, his back to me, holding what looked to be an open book in one hand (reading, was my guess), his other hand in the pocket of his trousers. He was tall, and thicker-set than Sherlock, with broad shoulders, and his hair wasn't as dark or curly at all.

"Um…" I started, a little shyly. The man turned around and lifted his head to look at me. "I was… looking for Sherlock?" Then it occurred to me—"Oh, gosh, unless this isn't his dorm." I could feel the blood rush into my face. "I'm so sorry to intrude. It's just—I've never been here before and I got lost a few times—"

The man smiled and laughed, stopping my babbling.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he asked, closing the book and setting it back on the bookcase.

"So this is his dorm room, then?" I confirmed, feeling relieved I hadn't just made a complete fool of myself and walked inside a little more.

The man turned back around, nodding. "Yep, you got it right. I'm Victor Trevor, a friend of his." He came forward with his hand. It took me a moment to take his hand because I was momentarily stunned. Not because I didn't think that Sherlock couldn't make friends, but because he'd found another person who was able to handle his blunt honesty and his razor-sharp intelligence. "His class is almost over. I was just passing the time, waiting for him."

"It's very nice to meet you, Victor. I'm Elizabeth Hallows. Most people just call me Lizzy. I'm also a friend of Sherlock's."

Just as I finished saying this, Sherlock walked in, stopping in the door way, surprised.

"Elizabeth," he said.

I smiled when I saw him. He'd grown, a bit, I want to say to about to six feet, but other than that he looked almost the same as I last remembered him. It was comforting.

"Hi, Sherlock," I greeted quietly. "May I?"

A half-smile formed on his lips and he nodded. I couldn't help but return the smile as I went up to him and wrapped my arms around him. The physical contact after so long felt wonderful. It had been about two years since we'd seen each other in person, and that was a long time to go without hugging your best friend. I felt his arms come around me after a small moment and revelled in this moment for as long as possible.

"I've missed you," Sherlock said quietly. I pulled back to look up at him.

"I've missed you, too," I told him, releasing him and taking a few steps back to allow him room to come into the dorm. "It's so good to see you."

"You as well, Elizabeth," he said as he walked in, with the tiniest bit of a limp I noticed.

"You're hurt," I found myself saying as he closed the door. He looked over at me sharply.

"Sprained his ankle," Victor filled in. "I kept telling him he shouldn't be walking on it so much, but he didn't listen."

I nodded in agreement and looked over at Victor, "Yeah, that happens a lot."

Victor chuckled. "I noticed."

Sherlock cleared his throat, grabbing our attention. "It's already healed," he informed us walking toward his desk chair and sitting down. "It's just a little… stiff."

"Walking on it all day won't make it any better." I said.

Victor laughed. "Trust me, he knows."

"Still, you really shouldn't push yourself so much."

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. I only came to Uni to get a degree. Apparently it makes you look smarter, having a piece of paper to display on a wall."

I rolled my eyes and stifled a sigh of exasperation but Sherlock gave me a smile and winked and I couldn't help but smile back.

"So, Elizabeth," Sherlock started. "Victor and I usually… chat after my class today—"

"Oh, I'm sorry to intrude!" I exclaimed. "I didn't know. I haven't received your latest letter. I can wait. I'll just walk around campus. It's a nice day out and the University is beautiful. I'll come back tonight." Without waiting for a reply I headed to the door.

"Elizabeth," Sherlock said, stopping me as I opened the door, the fiery orange sunlight filtering in (the sun was setting).

I looked over my shoulder at him and he simply smiled. I smiled back before slowly heading out and closing the door behind me. It just felt good to see him. I was glad that he'd made another friend.

I wasn't actually going to walk around the campus because I would probably get lost again and I really didn't want to do that. Instead, I struggled to find my way to the library to pass the time until this evening. When the time came, which I almost missed because I'd gotten so caught up in the books, I headed back to Sherlock's dorm. By now it was dark and the campus was quiet. I knocked softly and waited until he opened the door. I couldn't help the smile that stretched across my face when I saw him again. It was just so good to see him in person after so long!

I stepped in and stood a little awkwardly, not sure where to sit. Sherlock decided for me when he pulled out his desk chair and then sat on edge of his bed.

I slowly took a seat, feeling more nervous than I had been. It was a surprise trip mainly because I had news I wanted to tell him in person. And it was pretty big news. I wasn't sure how he was going to take it, but because we'd managed to keep in contact after two years, I was confident that it wouldn't have too much of an impact on him.

"So, this surprise visit isn't just for frivolous things," he pointed out, folding his hands in his lap. "You have news."

A smile pulled at the edge of my lips at this. "I've actually missed that, if you can believe it."

"I've gotten better." Sherlock commented.

"I can tell." I agreed.

"So, your news?" Sherlock prompted.

I let out a big sigh. "Well… you remember when I told you about how I was going for degrees in art, design, and psychology, right? And in my letters from this last year how I told you I've been taking online courses from the Emotional Intelligence Academy?"

"Yes,"

"Well… long story short, I'm… I'm going to be studying abroad to the States, soon. I got an internship at the Lightman Group in Washington D.C."

I paused there and nervously waited for him to respond. He blinked a few times and just continued to stare at me like he was processing this news. When the silence continued on to an uncomfortable degree, I opened my mouth to speak but Sherlock beat me to it.

"How long?" he asked.

"Well, a year, but that could change. I mean, I really don't know, but the set time that I've worked out is a year." I explained to him. "It's not like it's going to really change anything, I mean, we've managed to keep in touch during our time at Uni. I'll still write, the letters will just take longer to get to you—" I broke off when I realised that I was babbling and Sherlock probably wasn't even listening anymore.

"That's certainly a big step from… art and design." Sherlock said slowly, still looking a little dazed, to me, anyway.

I laughed a little. "Yeah, it is, isn't? I'll still be taking other classes to fulfil my art and design, of course, but I'll also be getting more into micro-expressions and such. It's just… something that I've found I really enjoy." I smiled and looked away a little embarrassed.

"I'm glad," Sherlock said suddenly bringing my attention back to him. "I'm glad that you're making progress. How's your mind palace? Expanding, I should hope."

"It's coming along well. Certainly not as big as yours," I joked, "but I'll be utilising it a lot more now with this flow of new information."

We settled into a small silence before I started up on another topic.

"So," I drawled. "Tell me about Victor."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You make it sound as if we're in a relationship," he scoffed.

"A friendship _is_ a relationship," I corrected him.

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't really see what I _can_ tell you about it, honestly. It's just a… friendship. I find that I enjoy the talks we have. He's bearable to be around, unlike most of the people here."

"Tell me how you met." I requested, which got me a look. "Humour me."

Sherlock sighed heavily. "Victor owns a bull terrier and it decided to attack me one day, hence my sprained ankle. He apparently felt bad about that, so he started visiting me and checking in to see how the healing process was going. They only lasted a minute or so, at first, but the stays started to lengthen. Like I said, I enjoyed his company and the talks we had. And we just… sort of… became friends. I don't know—there's not much to it."

"That was sweet of him." I commented.

"Honestly, Elizabeth, you make it sound like I don't know how to make friends."

I gave him a look, "And do you?"

"…no, I don't. But that's not the point I'm trying to make—"

"Sherlock, I don't mean anything by it," I interrupted him. "I know how you are and I know that it's difficult for you to interact with the public on a daily basis, let alone a single someone you can interact with every day; so I think it's good that you've found _someone_ here that can give you the company that I can't anymore.

"Humans are social creatures—and yes, you're human, as much as you'd like to deny it. We need that social interaction, even if it is for a little bit, or from one person."

"Did you get that from a psychology textbook?" Sherlock asked.

I straightened up subconsciously in my seat at that, "Yes, actually, I did." I told him very matter-of-factly, which made him laugh.

"All right, I told you about how I met Victor. How have you been since your last letter? Other than… your study abroad… _thing_."

I rolled my eyes at my study abroad "thing", but tried to remember the last thing I'd told him in my letter and began from there. We talked for quite a while that night about things that'd been going on in our lives since our last letters. It was good to see him in person, to talk to him in real time after so long. I was also glad that he was indulging me with this mindless banter. It was nice and probably something we wouldn't be doing for at least another year, if not, more if I decided to stay or was offered to stay longer. Regardless of what the future held, at that moment, I was happy to be with Sherlock again.

* * *

 I was in the middle of watching an interview video in the lab with Dr Lightman and Dr Foster when Anna poked her head in. Dr Lightman paused the video and looked at her silently.

"Um, someone's at the door for Lizzy." she said, pointing out the door.

Dr Lightman's gaze turned toward me. "Expecting visitors _Miss_ Hallows?" he asked in that very monotone but deprecating tone.

I tried to stutter out an explanation, because I hadn't been expecting a visitor today, but nothing came out and I ended up sounding like a fish drying up on land.

"He says it's urgent." Anna said, grabbing our attention. I turned back to Dr Lightman.

"I… I should to take this. I mean, may I take this? I'll be quick—" I broke off when Dr Lightman turned back to the video and hit play again.

"Go," he waved noncommittally with his hand toward the door. "We'll just be doing your job for you. While you're at it, wouldn't hurt you to bring some tea back with you."

I paused trying to decide if that meant I could go before looking to Dr Foster. She looked done with Dr Lightman and simply nodded at me. I left without another word and followed Anna to the front doors of the establishment. Who I saw, wasn't at all who I was expecting (although, in retrospect, I wasn't sure who I was expecting). There, standing in a blue scarf and long coat, collar up, was Sherlock Holmes. Underneath his coat he had on his usual suit. Standing a little behind him was a slightly older-looking woman I didn't recognise.

"Sherlock," I said grabbing his attention as I went down the small hall to greet him. "What—what are you doing here?"

"Ah, Elizabeth, I need a favour." Sherlock said, looking at me, like it hadn't been months since we'd last seen each other.

"…I can't just—I'm working, Sherlock." I replied.

"It can see that, Elizabeth. But it won't be a difficult task. I just need you to babysit for me, while I go sort some things out." Sherlock replied.

"I'm a grown woman. I don't need a babysitter." the woman who'd been standing behind Sherlock spoke, glaring at him.

"Can you do that for me?" Sherlock asked, ignoring her.

I let out a frustrated sigh. "I can't just drop everything—"

"Who's this?" a different voice came from down the hall. I spun around to see Eli Loker, looking at the three of us before approaching.

"Go away, Eli, this is none of your business." I griped.

"Actually," He held his hands out, gesturing to the hallway we were standing in, looking at me, "this is my business, I work here. And it looks like this man could use some assistance."

I groaned. "He's not looking for the help we provide. Now, go away." I repeated.

"Rude." Eli responded.

I turned back to Sherlock to tell him he should probably leave now when yet another voice floated down the hallway.

"Loker," It was Ria Torres. "There you are. You said you'd be back in five minutes. We've still got a lot to do with—" She broke off when she saw Sherlock and the other woman. "What's… going on?"

"Apparently this man is looking for help, but not the help that we provide." Eli answered.

"That doesn't make any sense. Why come here?" Ria asked.

"Because he wanted to see me." I said quickly. "But this really isn't any of your business, so if you could just leave now, that'd be great."

"We could help with whatever it is you need. Just ask." Ria told me.

"No, I really don't think you could—"

"Well," Dr Lightman's voice boomed from the end of the hallway. We all turned to look at him. "If it isn't Sherlock Holmes, as I live and breathe."

"Dr Lightman," Sherlock greeted. I blanched and looked at Sherlock.

"You know him?" I asked in disbelief.

Sherlock gave me an odd look. "Of course," he said just as Dr Lightman pushed his way between Eli and me, forcing me to step back, holding his hand out for Sherlock to take. "It's nice to finally meet you in person, Dr Lightman." Sherlock continued, shaking his hand, his statement confusing me even more.

"Ditto," Dr Lightman replied before turning to me. "You could've told me it was Sherlock Holmes that was calling for you, saved us all some time and effort." he deadpanned.

"It's not like I can see the future." I retorted without thinking.

"Now, is that _any_ way to talk to your boss?" Dr Lightman shot back.

"Cal," Dr Foster warned gently, for she'd joined the party, too.

Dr Lightman looked at Dr Foster with a blank expression. "What?" he asked. She simply looked at him. He blinked before turning back to Sherlock. "So what brings you here, Mr Holmes?"

"I was simply asking a favour of an old friend. I need someone to watch Mrs Hudson for me while I run some… errands." Sherlock explained.

"And what sort of errands are we talking about, here?" Dr Lightman questioned. Sherlock simply smiled at him, refusing to answer. A smile formed on Dr Lightman's features before he turned around and headed down the hallway while barking out orders, "Torres, watch her. Loker, back to work. Foster, Hallows, with me."

Ria looked shocked and frustrated that she was stuck with the babysitting position. Eli looked amused by the same news.

"Lizzy, come on. Best not keep him waiting." Dr Foster told me quietly as she turned and headed off down where Dr Lightman had gone.

"Sorry," I apologized to Ria. "We'll talk later." I told Sherlock before following Dr Foster, not waiting to see how any of them responded to my words.

I would find out later that Sherlock was doing a favour for the woman named Mrs Hudson. Apparently he was trying to find and convict her husband, who lived in Florida but had fled up to D.C. That's why he'd appeared on the Lightman Group's doorstep, asking for someone to watch her. It wasn't something you heard every day, but it worked, I suppose. What I was really wondering is how Mrs Hudson, a sweet lady, had ended up in Florida, marrying a man who was now on the run from the police, and someone Sherlock was trying to convict.

Also, Sherlock had looked up Dr Lightman and the Lightman group after I'd told him I'd be interning there. Apparently, Sherlock had been in the London news (outstanding academics, is what he said), and from what Sherlock deduced, Dr Lightman read the news from London. That was why Dr Lightman seemed to know Sherlock.

"Small world," I commented a little dazedly, after Sherlock had finished explaining things to me. This made him laugh, which in turn made me smile.

It sure felt good to see him again. See him again, and see him laughing.

* * *

 **I apologize in advanced if I have butchered Britain's education system. I Googled and consulted a Briton (thanks Sherlockian Dreams), so I hope I've got my facts straight. Also, because it's been debated on whether or not Sherlock attended Oxford, Cambridge, or the University of London, I just picked one randomly. As you read, I did some combining of fandoms, even though this isn't strictly a crossover.** **Sorry to spring that other fandom on you like that, especially if you haven't seen it.**

**The whole Lightman group world is from a show called _ **Lie to Me**_ **(beautiful show; I suggest you go watch it; it's on Netflix). If you have by chance watched it, I hope I did the characters okay, and also I changed the timeline around a little from the show to fit this.****


	14. Got Dynamite

It's quite amazing how time can fly so fast without you realising it. What seems to be even more amazing is how while you're there, in that moment, time seems to be moving at an incredibly slow pace. Just when you think you've got the hang of it, you look back and realise that the year's almost up.

I stayed in America for the rest of the year, working with the Lightman Group before I went back to Britain. I had become horribly homesick near the end of that, and as much as I didn't want to leave the Lightman Group, because of all the amazing things that Dr Lightman and Co. had taught me, I was ready to go home. I was ready to see Sherlock in person again, ready to see all my friends and family in person again, after what felt like so long. I would be finishing my last two years of Uni in Britain, if that wasn't obvious, and taking more online classes from the EIA.

Sherlock and I had continued the letters during that time I was abroad. I was sad to hear about the misfortunate events that led to his and Victor's friendship breakup—for the lack of a better word. He assured me that while Victor had been good company, he really didn't mind that after what happened Victor became distant and moved away. Sometimes I wished I was back in Britain to be able to tell if he was lying about this or not, but his letters didn't show any change in attitude.

Still, that didn't mean it hadn't affected him.

From his letters, he told me that after what happened with Victor, his decision to become a consulting detective had basically solidified. He had had fun putting his skills to actual use and solving something, rather than mindlessly deducing things about his fellow classmates. It was exciting, and I could understand in that I'd been helping Dr Lightman detect lies and solve big cases for the past year, so I could understand the appeal.

I could understand it, did that mean I felt comfortable with him going into a field like that? Not exactly. While I was probably going to help Scotland Yard, and actually utilise the skills I'd spent three years working on, I didn't think I was cut out for being a police officer. I hated violence. I hated watching in movies or seeing it in everyday life. I would excuse myself from the situation if it got too violent when I was working for Dr Lightman. Still, I suppose that doesn't give me any right to judge him for helping solve crimes.

Anyway, by the time I headed back to Britain, from what I gathered, Sherlock would be helping the police with their cases, as well as helping others with their problems (so long as they were "interesting"). He still had to finish his own time at Uni, though, he only had a year left, but that didn't mean he couldn't at least start a little early.

Coming back was a bit odd, I felt like London had changed a lot in a year. Maybe not visually, or anything that was strikingly different, but it just felt different. And I wasn't sure if it was because I'd been in the U.S. for a year and had grown accustomed to how D.C. had been laid out, or if London had really changed. Maybe the people, my people, just felt a little foreign to me _because_ I'd been away for so long. Either way, though, I was happy to be back. To see Sherlock, and Serena (who was doing great in her goal to becoming a pathologist, already working with a woman named Molly Hooper, who already worked as a pathologist in Bart's, just by the way), my dad, and the other friends I'd made while at Uni.

Things had been okay for a while. But I think not seeing me on a daily basis like he was so used, and especially what happened with Victor, had taken their toll on Sherlock.

* * *

 I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, glaring down the hallway as Sherlock was handed back his belongings.

"You know, you're lucky." I commented in a surprisingly measured tone for how angry I was feeling right now. Sherlock made a noncommittal grunt in response. "You're lucky Lestrade likes you. Do you know what he told me he took you in for?"

"What's that?" Sherlock asked sounding very uninterested as he put his phone back into his jacket pocket and started heading out. I quickly followed, my anger rising with him every second.

"Breach of the peace," I answered, forcing myself to keep my tone low so others wouldn't overhear. When Sherlock didn't respond, I ran in front of him, stopping him in his tracks. He glared down at me and I glared back, "When we both know that's _not_ what you were doing."

There was a moment of tense silence between us before Sherlock pushed past me and continued out, at a brisker pace, I noticed. But, being stubborn and angry, I followed him all the way back to his flat. We didn't talk during the cab ride because I didn't want to talk about this in front of a complete stranger. Though I could tell Sherlock already wasn't too pleased that I'd forced myself into his cab and/or wouldn't leave him alone about this.

"Sherlock, you can't do this to yourself!" I yelled following him up to his flat. The problem with him having such long legs, though, was that he was much faster than me. I was a few paces behind him. "Don't run away from me and don't ignore me!" I called after him, practically jogging to keep up with him. He, however, slammed the door in my face. I quickly grabbed the handle and opened it back up, stepping inside, before he could lock it. I slammed it closed behind me as he came forward, getting into my face. I took a few steps back, hitting the door.

"Why do you care so much, anyway?" Sherlock growled, his eyebrows knitted together in anger. His green eyes blazing like Greek fire. "It's _my_ transportation."

I pushed him back a bit, feeling a little uncomfortable. I hadn't ever seen Sherlock… _angry_ before, at least not _this_ angry. Much less violent. My nerves spiked, as did my heartbeat, and I became hyperaware, monitoring Sherlock's facial expressions and body language carefully.

"How dare you even ask that," I said, fuming. "I care about what you put into your body because I _care_ about _you_ , Sherlock. _Especially_ when it involves something so damaging like drugs."

"Well, news flash, Elizabeth," Sherlock spat. "You don't need to worry about me. I am perfectly fine. I've got it under control."

I laughed without humour. "Under control? Sherlock, since when is using _drugs_ having it under control?"

"I wouldn't be so quick to talk, Elizabeth. Maybe instead of worrying about me and what I'm up to, you should worry about your boyfriend."

That stopped me short and I involuntarily jerked back a little.

"My boyfriend? What does Patrick have _anything_ to do with this?" I swallowed hard, feeling like the wind just got knocked out of me.

"Oh, don't tell me you didn't see it?" Sherlock mocked. "Elizabeth, the human lie detector? With your 'flawless' science—?"

"It's not flawless. No science is. In this case, it's not particularly the science, it's the people. People are the flaws." I corrected him, feeling like I was being attacked.

"Human error, of course." Sherlock scoffed.

I furrowed my eyebrows, mouthing his words. _Human error._ Why did that sound so familiar—?

"He's cheating on you, Elizabeth." Sherlock finally deadpanned.

"What?"

"Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't see it, what with your science and all. He's clearly cheating on you. Lying to you about where he's been, what's he's been doing. He smells vaguely on another woman's perfume. It's quite obvious if you look for the right signs. Don't tell me you haven't seen it."

I felt dizzy at this sudden barrage of deductions. Breathless and dizzy. Not just at the fact that my boyfriend of at least a year was cheating on me, but… Sherlock had broken his promise.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to tell you that we'd made promises to each other, when Sherlock first found out that I was taking classes in deception detection. I promised not to read him so long as he promised not to deduce things about my personal life (especially when it came to dating). Of course we'd still see things, it's not like they have off switches, but this promise reminded us to be polite enough to each other to not say anything about it.

I guess his word didn't apply when he was high.

My world spun momentarily and I thought for sure I was going to take a spill, but, no. Not here. Not _here._ Not now. I blinked and the world came back into focus, but I could feel the hurt start to form in my chest, a deep, cavernous hurt where my heart used to be.

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I _refused_ to cry.

"I… I didn't see it because… I _thought_ I could trust him." I explained feeling even more defensive than before, even angrier than before.

He snorted. "Like I said, _human error_."

At this, my eyes snapped to his and I glared at him through watery eyes.

"How dare you turn this onto me!" I snapped at him. "Clever way of getting the spotlight off yourself, but I'm not going to fall for it."

"Tch, fall for what," Sherlock scoffed, crossing his arms. "I'm not lying. Go ahead, read my face, do you detect any deception?"

I growled in frustration. "That's not how it works. Stop turning the attention to me. This is about _you_ , Sherlock. You have a problem—"

I broke off suddenly and jumped back, hitting the door behind me again when Sherlock strode toward me, hands coming up and slamming up against either side of my head. His eyes were as cold as ice, glistening with contained anger. It was odd to see his eyes so alight with emotion when his face was almost devoid of it.

"I don't _have_ a problem," he spat, pronouncing each word carefully and deadly quiet.

And for the first time in my entire life, I was afraid of my best friend.

"Sh-Sherlock," I stuttered in a whisper afraid of what might set him off. "Let me leave."

The anger disappeared from his eyes momentarily, which seemed to clear. His face fell as, I assume, he realised what had just happened and read the fear on my face. When one of his hands, still currently pressed against the door, moved toward me, I flinched and my hands came up in defence.

"Please, just let me leave." I gasped, my heart fluttering in my chest, feeling lightheaded and like my whole body was tingling from the adrenaline rush.

Without a word, never taking his eyes off me, Sherlock lowered his hands and took a few steps back. I never took my eyes off him as I searched for the door handle, opened the door, and slipped out. I sprinted out of there as fast as I could. I ran a few streets down before turning down an alleyway and catching my breath, struggling not to break down right there, I needed to get home first.

My hands were shaking and my heart was still hammering in my chest. I don't know how long it took me to calm down enough to finally go out onto one of the busier roads and hail a cab, but the sun was setting by the time I got back home.

I was still living with my dad, which probably seems childish, but I was in Uni, working a part-time job, and couldn't quite afford my own official place. I helped pay for water, electric, food, things like that, but it wasn't nearly as expensive as if I tried to find my own place, so I stayed. It wasn't a big deal to me.

He came to greet me when I came home, but I told him I'd had a bad day and just wanted to sleep before heading upstairs to my room. I felt kind of bad, but I was just drained.

Unfortunately for me, it didn't end there. As soon as I had taken off my coat, my phone started ringing. It was Patrick. I didn't want to pick up, I didn't want to talk to him ever again, but I was going to have to break up with him some time or another, and better sooner than later. With a big sigh and a pounding heart, I answered, but couldn't even get the simple "hello" out. Turns out I didn't have to.

 _"Finally,"_ Patrick exclaimed as soon as I picked up. _"I was starting to get worried. I phoned you several times before, but you never picked up."_ I stayed silent because I didn't know what I was going to say or how I was going to handle this. I froze. _"Lizzy,"_ Patrick finally asked, after a long moment of silence. _"Is… everything all right?"_

"…are you cheating on me?" I asked in a monotone. Dead silence once again. "It's okay, just tell me the truth. I won't be angry."

I heard Patrick sigh heavily into the phone.

 _"Listen, I'm sorry—"_ he started.

I closed my eyes, eyebrows furrowing. "Don't," I interrupted him, opening my eyes again, blinking away tears. "Don't apologise."

More silence on his part.

"How long?" I finally asked.

 _"Two… weeks. Going on three,"_ he answered slowly.

"Why?"

_"…I could make excuses, but I don't think you want to hear them."_

I'll admit, I smiled a bit at this, even if he couldn't see.

"Well, I guess we're breaking up."

More silence.

 _"I would say I'm sorry, but…"_ he trailed off.

"You take care of yourself." I mumbled. There was another silent, awkward moment before, Patrick said softly, _"Goodbye, Lizzy."_ I didn't say anything as I pulled the phone away and hung up. I could feel the tears welling up in my eyes again. I set my phone down on my nightstand ready to go to bed, maybe have a shower before, but the tears started falling and I realised I didn't want to move. I just wanted to lie down. I slowly made my way to the floor, leaning my back the nightstand, as the tears flowed. I think I fell asleep sitting there at one point.

My phone is what woke me up. It was ringing, too loud. Blinking away the fog, I sat up and searched for it on my dresser, knocking other little knick-knacks off. When I finally found it I looked at the screen but had to pull it away from my light-sensitive eyes. It wasn't helping, either, that room had gone completely dark. All I could make out were darkness and then lighter blobs in the darkness. I carefully lifted my phone again, squinting as I waited for my eyes to adjust, which took a good few minutes. By then, the ringing had stopped.

I flipped open the screen and realised I had missed three other calls from the same number before I'd heard it. How odd. I hit the redial button and put the phone to my ear. I still had no sense of time and I didn't really think turning on the lights mattered.

The phone rung for what I felt was an excessively long time before someone finally picked up. The voice I recognised, but couldn't place a face to it.

"Hello, Lizzy," he said, because I could distinguish they were definitely male.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled. "Who's this?" I was still waking up. I was also starting to form a headache.

"It's Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man said and it finally fell into place.

"Oh," I exclaimed realising this. Then realising why he'd be phoning me. "Oh," I said again more subdued. "What…" I took a steadying breath. "Is everything okay…?"

"…Sherlock's in the hospital. Overdose." Lestrade answered so quietly I almost didn't hear him.

They wouldn't let me in to see him because I wasn't family, strictly speaking. Even after everything, I was worried about him, so worried about him. It was annoying and frustrating because they wouldn't let me see him, they wouldn't tell what happened, or what condition he was in now. I guess it was lucky Lestrade was there, because they'd told him and he'd been kind enough to tell me. Though, I wasn't sure if it was out of pity, the fact that he knew our relationship, or seeing how upset I was over this.

It could've been a combination of all three.

Greg Lestrade, a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. I'd been introduced to him by Sherlock a little after I'd come back from the States. I met him at Scotland Yard, and had Sherlock not been there, I don't think we would've been introduced, to be honest. I'd been visiting Scotland Yard because I was looking into a consulting job there, with my new skillset. I wanted to put it to good use and not let the information just sit in my brain. I still had Uni to finish, of course, but for right now it was more like another internship, only on home soil, which was a nice prospect.

As I was saying, though, I happened to bump into Sherlock as he was leaving, Lestrade had been walking next to him. It would be later that Sherlock would tell me more about how they'd met/gotten into contact with each other after Sherlock decided he was going to become a consulting detective. Now that he was in close relations with Sherlock and I was helping Scotland Yard, I saw him frequently and determined he was a pretty nice man, and a very good DI (though, Sherlock might debate me on that point).

Lestrade told me that Sherlock had overdosed on cocaine, and had they not been working on a case, he probably would've died. Thankfully, that's not what happened. Sherlock had already been unconscious when Lestrade found him and that had been about an hour before he'd phoned me. Right now they were flushing out the drugs from his system and I wouldn't be able to go see him until he was clean. None of this was comforting in the slightest, but I was grateful Lestrade had even found him.

He had to leave soon after because he was still technically on a case, so I said goodbye and decided to wait in the waiting area. Don't ask me why, at the time I thought it completely rational. Obviously, it wasn't, but at the time I'd also just had a very emotional day—which wasn't getting any better—so, you can't blame me too much.

It hit midnight and that was when I remembered that I had class in a few hours. (I'd made poorer decisions before.) I reluctantly headed home, at least with the small comfort that if anything happened, Lestrade would phone me.

* * *

 I sat by his bedside, holding one of his hands in my own, gently stroking the back of his hand with my thumb. I was staring off, zoning out thinking about how this conversation was going to go. Because, don't get me wrong, I was still angry at him for using, breaking his promise, and partly being violent with me, and would be having a serious discussion with him once he was recovered, but underneath all those layers, he was still my best friend. I just needed to figure out a tactful way of wording it.

"You look like the world is ending," Sherlock's voice came, interrupting my brooding.

I jumped, stopped stroking his hand, and looked over at him. Sure enough, a pair of blue eyes met my own green ones. Tears formed in my eyes and I took a short breath at seeing him finally awake, for I'd come here after my last class and had been here up to this point.

"I was so worried," I said, tightening my grip on his hand.

Not saying anything, Sherlock pulled his hand out of mine before bringing it toward my face, his forefinger catching a tear just as is escaped the corner of my eye.

"Don't cry for me, Elizabeth." He whispered caressing my face and wiping another tear away as it came streaming down my cheek. "I don't deserve your tears. Sad. Or happy."

I pulled his hand away from my face, but kept it in my hands.

"Don't say that—" I started, not meeting his eyes.

"I broke my promise to you." he stated.

"You were right, though." I mumbled still not meeting his eyes. That is, until Sherlock pulled his hand away again to lift my head with his finger before caressing my face again.

"Just this once," he murmured, "I wish I wasn't." His hand dropped again. "I don't mean to ruin everything I come into contact with, Elizabeth. I really don't."

"Sherlock—" I began, about to disagree.

"It's true," he interrupted. "You know it. You've seen it. You've been a victim of it. It's just who I am, it's how I _work_."

"Sherlock—" I tried again, but he continued.

"You're an open book sometimes, Elizabeth." His voice had hardened and raised slightly. "I was awake for much longer than you realised and I saw it all flash across your face as you thought." He paused for a split-second and when he spoke again, his tone had become softer almost… ragged, "You're disappointed."

"Okay, look," I said, hoping he wouldn't interrupt me again. "You're right, I _am_ disappointed. But only because you _didn't come to me_. Don't get me wrong, I don't like it when you use in the first place, but, Sherlock, you can come to me, regardless of whether or not you've used. I'm here for you. I don't know how many times I have to tell you this. You can _trust_ me, Sherlock."

"You don't know what it's like, Elizabeth." Sherlock said, voice hardening again, eyes flaring with an emotion I couldn't decipher. "You don't understand in the _slightest_ what's going on in my head twenty-four/seven."

I took his hand again. "Then help me understand, Sherlock," I pleaded. " _Tell me_ what's going on. _Tell me_ what I can do to help. You don't have to go back to drugs, because I'm here for you. I am and always will be here for you. I thought you knew that. You can _always_ come to me." I paused to let that sink in. "For… anything."


	15. Some Nights

**TRIGGER WARNING: mentions and a conversation about suicide and some gore.**

* * *

 I heard yelling and screaming as soon as I got to the landing on the second floor. I'd never heard yelling before, but it was loud enough I could make out voices, not words, but voices, and they told me that it was coming from Sherlock's flat.

I quickly made my way down the hall at a steady jog and was about half-way down when two people burst from out of Sherlock's flat, as I'd suspected, looking angry as hell. Those two people were Sally Donovan and Greg Lestrade. Lestrade looked more disappointed and just plain upset. Donovan looked livid.

"I'm done!" she yelled at Lestrade and someone—who was probably Sherlock—through the door. "I can't work like this." She turned toward Lestrade angrily. "I don't see why you even brought him onto this case. We had it handled. _We_ were _handling_ it until he came along." She gestured through the door again. "We were making so much progress and then it stopped."

"Donovan," Lestrade raised his voice, asserting his authority as DI. "Calm down. We've just hit a rough patch, it happens all the time—"

" _We don't have time for this._ People's _lives_ are on the line, unless you forgot, _Detective Inspector._ " Donovan shot back.

"Now wait, just one bloody second—"

Donovan turned and started down the hall. "I'm done waiting! More people are going to die if we don't figure this out _right now_. You said he could help and he's given us nothing." As she came closer to me I stood aside to give her room but she turned to face me suddenly. "Get him in line."

"I beg your pardon?" I asked incredulously.

"Isn't that why you're here? To help with the case? So why don't you do something useful for once and get him back on track."

"Donovan!" Lestrade barked, and I was sure he was going to say something else, but I cut him off.

"If you're implying that I'm only here to keep Sherlock in line—"

Donovan snorted. "Implying?"

My face flushed and my anger swelled in my chest. "You are seriously mistaken. Or don't you remember all those times I _helped_ Scotland Yard move forward with a case; all those times I helped them, and you, skip over the wondering and contemplating and the _false information_ that could've set your cases back by _days_ , because of my skill, my ability to detect lies. Without me, you'd still be solving them."

"Are you insinuating we don't know how to do our jobs?" Donovan gaped, crossing her arms.

"Was I being too subtle?" I asked cheekily.

"All right!" Lestrade yelled, coming between the two of us. "Donovan, car. _Now_." She looked indignantly at him. "That's an order. Go." She glared at him for a few more seconds before storming down the hall and stairs. Lestrade then turned to me, but before he could speak I did.

"You won't find anything useful in time. The clock is ticking down. Give me thirty minutes with him alone." I spoke rapidly and in a low tone.

Lestrade looked at me for a long moment. " _Twenty_ minutes, I'll have a team ready. Phone me." With that he left, too. I tried to not to groan and shout in frustration before going to the still open door. Sherlock was, obviously, inside. He was pacing, running his hands through his hair rapidly, muttering to himself.

I entered cautiously. I don't think I'd ever seen him this upset or… _wired_ before. After his overdose incident, he'd tried to explain to me what it was like with his mind, how in functioned. Occasionally on cases where we were together, he'd almost narrate how his thought processes worked. That or he'd just inform us how he'd induced something. So, he'd told me what he could get like if he wasn't using, but seeing it was more frightening than I realised it could be. He wasn't violent, per se, not like with the drugs, but he was definitely different than his usual calm, cool, collected self. The mask of indifference was gone.

"Sherlock?" I asked slowly, taking a few steps in.

He kept muttering, his hands going every which way.

"Sherlock?" I asked again, taking a few more steps toward him. He stopped suddenly and glared at me with cold, calculating grey eyes.

"Not now, Mycroft," he spat before continuing his pacing. "I can figure this out on my own. I don't need your help. Go away."

I tried not to let the shock of him calling me Mycroft stun me as I cautiously approached him. He'd told me about how his brother pushed him when they were younger, always pushed him and pushed him and pushed him. While it had worked, Mycroft had become one of Sherlock's demons of sorts. Sherlock looked up to him, he admired him in his own way, because—as Sherlock had told me—Mycroft would be there to help guide him through inductions and information and facts to come to a conclusion.

But Sherlock also despised his older brother. Nothing was ever good enough for Mycroft, no matter how hard he tried, Mycroft never fully appreciated Sherlock's genius. I grudgingly admit that Mycroft's intelligence was superior to Sherlock's, but Sherlock was more human than him and every time Mycroft didn't show his approval it stuck with his younger brother.

I'd never seen him like this before. I'd never see him go into his Mind Palace but not censor it. He'd always became animated when sifting through his palace, but mostly with his arms and hands, and it'd never been this bad, where he was pacing and speaking to Mycroft out loud, waving his hands about. It really showed me just how much affect Mycroft's lack of affection had on him.

"Sherlock," I said carefully and softly.

"Go away, Mycroft." Sherlock said again.

"Sherlock, it's me." I said in the same soft tone. "It's Elizabeth."

He didn't seem to hear me or really _see_ me, for that matter, because he said, again, "I told you to _go away!_ " Putting his palms to his temples he let out a frustrated scream, squeezing his eyes shut.

I chanced at going up to him and invading his personal space, facing him and putting my hands on his shoulders. He tried to pull away, opening his eyes again, dropping his hands, but I took a step closer and moved my hands to either side of his face.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, look at me." I begged in gasping breath, as he tried to avoid my gaze. " _Look_ at me." His eyes finally snapped over to meet mine. "Elizabeth," I reminded him. "It's Elizabeth. Mycroft isn't here."

"…Elizabeth," Sherlock breathed his eyes clearing some. "I-I… It's too much." he half-whispered, half-gasped. "I can't _concentrate_. I need—"

I shook my head. "No, no, Sherlock, don't—"

"Just to calm my mind so I can _think_."

"No, Sherlock, listen to me—"

"Elizabeth, please," he interrupted again, reaching up to grab my wrists.

" _Listen to me,_ " I reiterated, putting a tiny bit more pressure on my hands so he wouldn't pull them away (though he did rest his hands on my wrists). I had to keep him looking at me. "Just take a deep breath,"

"That's not going to work—"

"Just-just humour me and take a deep breath, okay? We'll do it together, all right?" I nodded, keeping eye contact, and took a breath in. To my relief, Sherlock did as well. When I breathed out, so did he. "Okay, good. Good, we're getting somewhere. You can do this. Close your eyes, breathe deep, and sort. I'm here, I'm right here and I'm not leaving until you've figured this out, because you _will_. You've done it before. This isn't any different. Okay?" I took another deep breath and so did Sherlock. We took a few more deep breaths before Sherlock finally closed his eyes.

I continued to take deep breaths with him, closing my eyes too, unconsciously pressing my forehead against his. He didn't seem to mind, too busy sorting through his Mind Palace to notice, probably. I'm not sure how much time passed but Sherlock jerked back, I opened my eyes and took a step back, dropping my hands, just in time to see him open his and gasp.

"You're brilliant," Sherlock exclaimed kissing my forehead before going to grab his coat. "Get Lestrade on the phone," he instructed as he donned his coat and scarf and started out the door. "We'll inform him on the way. There's not time to waste!"

"Where are we going?" I shouted after him, but he was either ignoring me or was too far down the hall. In any case, I ran to catch up to him, taking my mobile out and dialling Lestrade. He picked up on the first ring. "We've got something." I told him as I exited the building as a cab pulled up to Sherlock along the curb.

The cab ride was agonising. As soon as I'd gotten in and before I had closed the door to the car, I had handed my phone over to Sherlock who quickly spit out the address we were going to then spoke to Lestrade about what was going on. The address was Cressida's—the suspect and only a fifteen-year-old girl—house because she wanted to finish what she started, or as Sherlock said, "come full circle," and that ended with her parents dying and then… her.

It was just a waiting game after, as the cab driver tried to get to the girl's house without breaking the law, but fast enough to save some lives tonight. It was horrible just being trapped in the cab waiting, and hoping.

When we arrived the house looked dark. There were big bay windows facing the street, but the curtains were drawn. Sherlock took my hand and pulled me to the side of the house, where there were more windows, the blinds here hadn't been pulled fully, leaving a sliver for someone to see what was going on inside. From this we could see Cressida, who was crying and holding a gun to who I assumed to be her father's head, who was on his knees. He had his hands held up against his head. They were in what looked to be the lounge, and Cressida was facing the bay windows, her father in front of her.

I started to leave, ready to burst through the front door, but Sherlock's arm shot out and stopped me.

"We have to go and stop this," I said looking up at him incredulously. "Scotland Yard won't get here in time. We have to _do_ something."

"And we are going to, but it's too late for him." Sherlock told me in a cold, detached voice.

I let out a breath, it misting in the cold night air.

" _What_ are you talking about?" I spat through gritted teeth, trying to keep my voice down so she wouldn't be alerted to our presence.

"If we go rushing in now, she'll panic and shoot either us or her father—which is more likely—and then herself." he explained to me. "I'm not going to risk your life. And I'm trying to at least save hers."

"But you'll let a man die." I shot back.

"Elizabeth, that's not… exactly the same thing—"

"It's still a life. You know as well as I do, she's emotionally unstable, the chances of her hitting me or you anywhere vital is low." I tried to push past his arm but he'd always been stronger than I was, still was.

"I'm not going to let you go in there. Were you even listening, the odds she'll shoot at either of us are also low. It's more likely she'll shoot her father."

I shook my head, unwanted tears forming in my eyes. "I can't just—" I broke off because I'd looked through the small crack and could see by the look on her face she was done arguing with her father. I pushed against Sherlock's arm harder, keeping my eyes on the scene, but he only moved in front of me, using his whole body as a barrier.

"Elizabeth, it's too late—" he tried again, but I didn't listen and continued to push against him, however vain my attempts were.

"Sherlock, let me go in there. Please! She's going to shoot him! She's going to—" The gunshot rang through the air, sounding like a firecracker, even from inside of the house. I gasped and reeled away from Sherlock and the window, my arms coming up to shield my face, but it was too late. The sight of the bullet going through that man's head had already seared its image into my mind. My unwanted tears spilled over and streamed down my face.

Sherlock came toward me and gripped my shoulders, making sure to keep my eyes off the window.

"Elizabeth, _Elizabeth_ ," he shook me slightly. "Concentrate. I need you to hold it together for just a little longer. We can still save her life, but I need you to be clear-headed, okay?" He then proceeded to give me instructions in the same quiet, rapid speech he'd began with. He slipped something in my hand before going around the house to the front, forcing the door open, and going into the house. Through the window I saw Cressida jump but instead of pointing the gun at Sherlock, she pointed it at herself. She said something to him as he raised his hands and started toward the bay windows so that his back was facing the bay windows as was Cressida.

The image of her holding the gun to her head, overshadowed by the image of her father falling to the floor, seemed to snap me out of it slightly and I gasped a deep breath before going to the backside of the house. What Sherlock had slipped into my hand had been lock-picking tools. I was to sneak in from the back, sneak up behind her, for if things went south, I'd be there to stop the hammer from hitting the firing pin. He said it'd hurt, but at this point, I think I'd gone numb.

With shaky breathing and even shakier hands I started to pick the lock of the back door. I was afraid that I'd drop the small items at one point, but too much was at stake. Even if I was shaking, my mind seemed to know this enough to keep my body from completely shutting down. I slipped through the door quietly and into what looked to be the kitchen from the minimal light coming from the lounge, dropping the tools into my jacket pocket. I could hear Sherlock's voice coming from the lounge, so I followed that, making sure my footsteps were silent, as I made my way.

"No," I heard Sherlock say. "No, I'm not lying to you. It _does_ get better. It _will_ get better."

"I don't believe you," Cressida spat through her teeth.

"Cressida," Sherlock said quickly as I came through the doorway from the kitchen. He wisely didn't look at me as I came in. I mistakenly glanced my eyes around the room and saw both of her parents dead with gunshot wounds to the head. Blood had spilled and was spilling from their wounds, pooling on the white carpet. " _Cressida_ ," Sherlock's voice broke me from my trance and I looked up again, at him. He was still focussed on Cressida, but I could tell he'd been trying to grab my attention with her name.

Sherlock continued to talk her down as I moved behind her and slightly to her left, so I could grab the gun. I couldn't see her face and that made me extremely uncomfortable, so I concentrated on her body language, but mostly her left hand, for any signs that she was about to pull the trigger, though the hammer hadn't been depressed yet and I found that odd.

"You _can_ believe me—" Sherlock started.

"Why should I believe _anything_ you say?" she growled, her grip tightening on the gun, but not the trigger.

My eyes flickered up to Sherlock to see him swallow hard.

"…because I've been there before," he finally said quietly.

It took everything in my power not to gasp or make a single sound, for that matter. I couldn't tear my eyes away from Sherlock and I could tell he was doing his best _not_ look at me, keeping his eyes trained on Cressida.

"I've been there before, but I made it out _alive_. I found the strength to pull myself out of that dark hole that I thought I'd be trapped in forever. And now look at me. I became a consulting detective. I've become stronger and the people who hurt me before can no longer do so."

There was a long tense pause, I held my breath, trying not to alert Cressida I was behind her, but it was gradually becoming harder and harder the longer this took. But I'd stand there as quiet as a ghost for however long it took if we could save her life, because five were already dead on this case, we didn't need a sixth.

"…I can tell you're telling the truth," Cressida said quietly, defeatedly, sending off alarm bells. I took a small step closer, my arm prepared to whip out and grab the gun at a moment's notice. "But I still can't believe you." That's when she pushed the hammer down. My gaze shifted toward Sherlock again in an almost panic, but with his eyes still on Cressida, he shook his head ever so slightly. You'd only be able to see it if you were really paying attention.

"Cressida—" Sherlock tried.

"No, no more of _this_. I've _killed_ five people. I'm probably going to jail for the rest of my life. No one's going to help me. I _have_ no one." Her voice began to raise and her grip tightened on the gun. "No one's going to listen to me if I tell them I have a mental disorder! My own _family_ didn't! I'm going to rot in a hole for the _rest_ of my life." Her next sentence was spoken completely calm and in a low tone, "I'd rather die."

Guessing that was my cue, with a pounding heart, the blood roaring in my ears, I reached forward and grabbed the gun, slipping my pinky finger between the hammer and firing pin. I had involuntarily squeezed my eyes shut, but when I heard a clip and felt pain shoot through my hand and down my arm just before I felt like I needed to vomit, use the restroom, and pass out all at the same time, but no gun shot, I opened my eyes and let out a breath, pulling the gun out of Cressida's limp hand.

Gasping in relief and trying to dispel those three feelings of sickness, I carefully pulled my hand away from the gun as Cressida collapsed to the floor, sobbing, her head in her hands. Sherlock had lowered his arms by now and he looked at me with a silent question. I waved him off and he went up to Cressida.

A few moments later, we were sitting on the highest step leading up to Cressida's house. Sherlock was between Cressida and me, but he was mainly focussing his attention on her. She was still crying, but they were silent tears. I was cradling my left hand to my chest, the gun sat in my lap, I had emptied the revolver, and the bullets that were left were also sitting in my lap. I was still feeling slightly sick and lightheaded, but I could manage it for now.

"I will do everything in my power to make sure someone listens to you." I heard Sherlock promise. Deep inside, under all the layers that had numbed inside me tonight, I felt a small prick of surprise. I knew Sherlock cared, and I knew he showed it a different way, but it was odd for me to see him show it so openly. He was at his most vulnerable right now and it was just odd to see because he didn't show it very often, or at all. I'd seen it a few times, but that was when he'd weathered a storm that had beaten him down for however long like his battle with drugs, Mycroft's overbearing nature when it came to Sherlock's intellect, or his parents' disappointment in him. He was raw in those moments, he was still healing from his wounds, and he had nothing to hide behind, because he hadn't built it back up yet.

So to see him to open up like that, so quickly, _especially_ when speaking about suicide… it was shocking and… frightening, to me. This was going to hit him hard and as soon as the police showed up and the girl was gone, his walls would go up and he'd be trapped inside his own mind, dealing with this like he always did. I just hoped that he'd remember that if he needed to talk, or wanted to use, he could come to me. I'd be there for him.

When a moment of silence had passed and Scotland Yard hadn't shown up yet I found myself saying blankly, "You never told me." But I didn't look over at him, I stared straight ahead, at the light hitting the wet pavement.

"Not now, Elizabeth," Sherlock replied quietly. "Please."

I glanced over at him, he was looking at me but the expression on his face pulled at my heart. I turned back to the lamplight.

"Okay." I mumbled. The pain in my hand was becoming worse and I was starting to get cold, also extremely tired. Finally, though, I heard sirens and saw flashing lights. They raced down the street and came to a screeching halt in front of Cressida's house.

It was all a blur of rushing officers and paramedics. I didn't see what happened to Sherlock and Cressida after two officers led them toward one of the cars, but when the paramedics and an officer approached me, they were put on the backburner for the moment. The officer took the gun and bullets from me. The paramedics threw an orange blanket over me before leading me to their ambulance. I was sat down on the step and after a few questions, I was told I was going to be taken to the hospital to get an x-ray to see if I'd really broken my finger.

As I was standing up to get onto the ambulance, though, Donovan approached me looking furious. I couldn't fathom why, though.

"Where is he?" she asked as soon as she approached. One of the paramedics tried to get her to leave so they could leave, but she waved him off.

I shook my head, too tired and worn for this. "Who?"

"Oh, you know _exactly_ who. The one who was supposed to solve this case single-handedly. The one who was supposed to be saving three lives, _not_ one. The one who screwed up and now there are two more people dead! That is who."

Anger boiled in the pit of my stomach and I felt heat rise in my face, my energy shooting up again. "Even if I _did_ know where he ran off to—which I'm not saying I do— if you think for one _second_ that I would tell you where he is so you could go berate him and yell at him and make him think that those people's deaths were his fault then you are seriously mistaken. He didn't screw up, he was too late. It happens. That's life."

"How do I even know you're not lying to me? How do I know you're not just _protecting_ him from the truth—?"

" _I don't know where he is!_ " I snapped, my voice raising to a level I'd never hit before, because I wasn't an easy person to anger. Donovan still glared at me, but had taken an involuntary step back. I made an effort to lower my voice, though. "Donovan, I don't know where his is and that his the honest to God truth." I paused and swallowed hard. "I'm _sorry_ that he wasn't able to figure it out in time. And I'm sorry that we lost two more lives today, I _am_. I had to _watch_ when one of them was taken and I couldn't do _anything_. But you _cannot_ go blaming this on him _just_ because you think what he can do is unnatural. That's not fair to him or you or the five people who have lost their lives throughout this case."

There was a pause before Donovan turned heel and stalked off. Logically, I think she knew I had a point, but emotionally, she wasn't going to let this go.

Sherlock had told me that stopping the hammer was going to do damage, as it was, it had. My pink was broken, but it was a hairline fracture, thankfully, nothing serious. They put my pinky in a splint to make sure it'd stay in place as it healed, told me that paracetemol would to for the pain, and then I was free to go. Lestrade was waiting for me in the waiting room.

"Lestrade, what—?" I started as he came up to me.

"Have you seen Sherlock?" he asked.

"No, I've been here and he… didn't come and visit me or anything. Is everything okay?" I asked, panic trumping my exhaustion for a moment.

"No, it's just…" Lestrade made a face.

"That's a lie." I pointed out.

He chuckled. "I'm just worried about him is all. He disappeared after telling me to make sure Cressida got the help she needed. I thought he'd probably come to you, but…" He gave me a half smile. "I hate to say this, but you've still got forms to fill out. I'll cut you some slack, though, and you can come in tomorrow. Have a good evening, Lizzy."

"Lestrade, wait," I called, for he was already heading to the exit doors. He stopped and turned to look at me expectantly. I walked up to him, speaking in a lower voice, "Did you know how personal this case was for Donovan?"

He gave me a look through narrowed eyes, "…no. Why?"

I pursed my lips. "You know, I do so love it when people try to lie to me." I commented.

"…I knew… she had _some_ connection, but I didn't know how deep seated it was and I didn't have time to look into it or question her about it. She kept insisting she wanted to work this case, so I let her."

"With all due respect, sir, but next time you need to assert your authority and take her off the case if it is or becomes too personal. You of all people should know this." I told him straight up.

Lestrade crossed his arms and gave me a look. "Now, listen, if this has anything to do with Sherlock—"

"This has _nothing_ to do with Sherlock," I interrupted quickly, continuing to speak rapidly and in a low voice so as to get my point across and not have him interrupt me, "You're the one who brought him into this conversation. I like to at least try to keep my personal life and social life separate, thank you. I rarely take cases that Sherlock is working on, unless you ask nicely, and I try not to interact him out in the field or at Scotland Yard. Like I said, this has _nothing_ to do with Sherlock, Detective Inspector, but it has everything to do with the lives of those at Scotland Yard and potential lives at stake during your future cases. Taking someone off the case, whether they like it or not, is within your authority and comes with the territory, _especially_ if you believe they will be emotionally compromised when it comes time to do what needs to be done.

"Now, I'm not saying you did anything wrong, Sergeant Donovan is after all your friend and colleague and you've probably been working together longer than you've been working with either Sherlock or myself, rather, I'm asking you to take this information and what happened tonight into consideration for _all_ of your officers when situations such as these pop up again, because they will, there's no avoiding them."

As soon as I finished my business-as-usual self disappeared and I was afraid I'd insulted him. His facial expression was that of someone who wanted to be angry, knew I had a point, but was also begrudgingly impressed.

"Because I like you, I'm not going to arrest you for criticising me and the whole of Scotland Yard." I could tell he was half-joking, half-being serious. I'd knocked him down a peg and while I was glad that he was going to stew over this and hopefully _would_ remember this for future reference, I wasn't exactly proud about it. In fact I felt a bit guilty, because Greg was a nice man and very good police officer, I respected him, so to say something like that to someone I respected felt kind of awful.

"Also, word of warning," Lestrade continued, breaking me out of my thoughts. He eyed me warily before saying, "You're starting to sound like Sherlock." I let out a sigh of relief and laughed. It seemed I hadn't ruffled his feathers too much. "Goodnight, Lizzy."

"Goodnight, Greg." I called after him.

As soon as he had left I switched my attention to my next concern for tonight: Sherlock. I was afraid he was going to do something to cope with this other than coming and talking to me about it, but I wasn't surprised. Before I left the hospital I asked the person at the desk for a piece of paper and a pen, I wrote down a note in the corner, tore it off and then left, pulling out a 50 pound note and wrapping the letter inside of it. I stored that in my pocket before I hailed a taxi.

There was an offshoot of the pavement, up some steps to a bench under the Waterloo Bridge. I remember Sherlock stopping the cab there during one of the cases we had been working together on. But I'd been heading home and Sherlock had been heading in the same area, so we carpooled. (I'd followed him to the bench because I had wanted to know what he was doing, and that was when he'd told me about his homeless network.) There was a slim chance that the same woman would be there, or that anyone would be there at this time of night, but I was hoping. This was the only way I was going to find him quickly after what happened today.

When I told the taxi to stop and wait, I was grateful that when I hauled myself over the railing, the same woman was indeed there, with her bag and sign. I was surprised, but grateful.

"Any change, miss?" she asked as I approached. I wasn't sure if it was some secrete code or something, but I wasn't about to take any risks so I repeated what I recall Sherlock said when she asked that same question.

"What for?"

She smiled knowingly, "Cup of tea, of course." she answered.

I couldn't help the smile that spread across my face as I handed over the note and my note. "Here you go," I said.

"Thanks." she replied as I turned and went back to the cab. Now it was just a waiting game. I went back to my dad's place. It was pretty late so I did my best to be as quiet as I could and snuck up to my room. Too tired to change, I quickly took some paracetemol before flopping down on my bed and promptly falling asleep. My phone woke me up. It was Sherlock. I picked up and sat up in my bed. I'd left my lamp on, I'd been so tired.

" _Word on the street is you're looking for me,_ " he commented as I blinked hard, trying to get my eyes to adjust faster.

I rolled my eyes. "Where are you?"

" _Outside._ "

I jumped out of my bed and made my way quickly down the stairs to the front door. Sure enough when I looked through the small window next to it, he was standing on our doorstep. I hung up and opened the door for him. He had a bag in his hand.

"I come bearing gifts," he said, holding up the bag. I gave him a look. "It's just food. I thought… you could use something to eat." he explained putting emphasis on the "t" in "eat."

I opened the door wider and waved him in. "If you could refrain from being too loud, though, it is late." I reminded him as I closed and locked the door before heading into the kitchen, Sherlock on my heels. He set the bag down on the island in the kitchen as I grabbed two wine glasses and the only bottle of red wine in this household. Sherlock gave me a confused look as I set the glasses down on the counter near where he was sitting.

"I didn't know you drank wine," he remarked while I got out a cork screw.

I gave him a look of my own as I unscrewed the cork from the bottle. "I don't." I deadpanned before pouring us each a glass. I lifted the bottle and looked at it. "I only have this because Serena gave it to me as a welcome home gift. I've tried wine before. I like it, I just don't drink in general."

"But tonight you do," Sherlock asked, though it didn't really sound like a question.

I nodded and set the bottle down, grabbing a fork and going over to sit by him. "Tonight I do. And tonight, you do too." I pushed the other glass over to him, taking a sip of mine.

"Elizabeth, I don't—" he started but I silenced him with a look. He didn't take the glass, but he didn't object to it either.

"So, what food have you brought me tonight?" I questioned, taking another sip.

Sherlock removed a Styrofoam take away box from the bag and opened it. "I would've thought that they would have better take away boxes, but… this is what they gave me. It's from a small Italian restaurant near Northumberland Street. I got the owner off a murder charge." He pushed it toward me and I was pleasantly surprised to see one of my favourite dishes: fettuccine alfredo with pan fried spinach, onions, and shrimp.

"You've had a long day, haven't eaten all night, I thought that getting some food into your system would be a good thing." Sherlock explained.

"I appreciate it." I told him with a smile.

It wasn't until after I had finished eating and half the bottle of wine was gone did things get more of serious. I had drunk most of it, but Sherlock had finished a glass, too. We had moved to the lounge and were sitting on the sofa when I finally brought it up again.

"You never told me." I repeated, softly, looking over at him.

"I… didn't feel the need to." he replied just as quiet, avoiding my gaze. I sighed and faced forward again.

"How many?" I continued.

"Pardon?"

"You know," I shot back.

He took a deep breath. "More times than I could count. It spiked after I came home from… rehab." Tears welled up in my eyes and I took a breath, looking away, trying to gather myself. "You were young, Elizabeth," Sherlock continued. "I didn't want you to worry—"

I turned my head toward him but didn't face him or look at him. "I _always_ worry about you. Even as a child." I told him in a strangled whisper. "An eight-year-old boy sitting alone at a table, with no lunch, reading the newspaper. I always worried. But, Sherlock, suicide—" My voice broke and I took another deep breath, almost gasp, as the tears threatened to spill over.

Sherlock quickly took my hand and squeezed it tightly.

"I didn't tell you because I wanted to protect you. I didn't tell you, because I was handling it—"

I finally turned to look at him with an incredulous expression. " _Handling_ it? Sherlock, how is keeping it bottled up inside _handling_ it?"

Sherlock reached up to stoke my cheek, wiping away a stray tear that had escaped my eye. "Because I had you," he said simply.

My heart skipped several beats and I shook my head. "What?" I gasped. "I don't—"

Sherlock's grip on my hand tightened slightly. "Because I always asked myself what was the point of all this? What was the point of this life, this world? School was… hell. Home was… well, better than school, but not by much. But I always, _always_ asked myself that question and one answer would pop into my head almost instantly, after I met you—before I was managing, but not… surviving. After I met you when I asked that question to myself… I'd see you. I'd see your green eyes alight with happiness and a smile gracing your features. It was… hopeful in those dark moments, a beacon of light, almost.

"I couldn't fathom why you kept wanting to hang out, why you were always concerned about me, why you _wanted_ to be my friend. I thought maybe you had ulterior motives, that this wasn't going to last, you'd get what you want and leave, but you didn't. You stayed, through all the grief I put you through, you stayed, and I came to realise that I enjoyed your company, having you as a friend. I realised you had become my reason to keep living, my… saving grace, as they say. You saved my life, Elizabeth."

I blinked rapidly, tears streaming down my cheeks, holding my breath to keep the sobs from escaping, but my shoulders still shook with them.

"Sherlock, I—" I broke off, unsure of what to say after that. I was just so shocked. I didn't know what to think. I tried speaking but sounds came out, not words, sounds, until finally I gave up and managed, "May I?"

Sherlock smiled and nodded. I moved closer to him, keeping his hand in mine, and leaned against his shoulder, my free arm coming around and gripping the sleeve of his coat. I closed my eyes and tried to control my breathing as more tears came. They weren't sad, though, they were happy.

And when I'd calmed down enough to stop crying and was half asleep, I closed my eyes and whispered, "I love you."

I felt him squeeze my hand gently. "I love you, too," he whispered back.

* * *

**Things to note for this chapter:**

  1. **I hope you don't mind the vagueness of some parts of it, it's hard to write about a place you've never been to before.**
  2. **Also with the mental illness, I would've assigned an actual one, however I only know of the mental illnesses, I don't know exactly how I would've diagnosed her and have no authority to do such. I'd rather it be vague then spread false information, so I didn't and left it as a mental illness.**
  3. **Just if you were wondering about the case, Cressida was being bullied at school, so she lashed out. The three others she killed were three of her classmates that were doing the tormenting. She killed her parents because they wouldn't listen to her.**
  4. **Just in case it doesn't make sense or things didn't click (I know this happens to me when I'm reading all the time), Sherlock's flat is closer to Cressida's house than Scotland Yard is, that's why they arrived and had so much time before the Yard finally showed up (though my guestimation about how long that whole scene took was 10 to 15 minutes).**
  5. **As for Sherlock and Elizabeth's story, I'm going to continue on into the actual BBC series of** _ **Sherlock**_ **, but integrate Elizabeth into it. It'll still kind of be based off Sherlock and Elizabeth's relationship, however it'll be different in that it will focus more on Elizabeth as a protagonist and be more in your standard book form. Hopefully Serena will make more appearances, not just honourable mentions, and they'll actually do what best friends do during down-time. The title is: My Walls Stood Tall, Painted Blue, another lyric from Everything Has Changed.**



**Thank you for reading,  
** **TheBrightestNight**


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